


Borne of Habit

by writtenbychris



Category: Glee
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, William McKinley High School
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-07-28 15:11:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16244231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writtenbychris/pseuds/writtenbychris
Summary: Kurt was supposed to be safe. Transferring back from Dalton no more than a week ago, the most part of his time returned was met in peace. Albeit, the hierarchy remains and those who claim that such a boy is not acceptable reveal just how daunting and dangerous the schools surroundings are.





	1. Chapter 1

Finn is the one who could have been there. Finn is the one who should have stopped it from happening. Finn is the one who is supposed to be the leader, and the brother. Finn is the one who finds him… Really, though, he has to.

Like it's Fate; like she has purposely intertwined their two souls and conjured a state of empathetic means. Since the whole ‘I Yelled at Kurt's Room and Got Kicked Out’ ordeal, a tie that could not be severed was formed. And in that, an unexpected brotherly sense of protection was born over the younger (despite the age gap more than minor), and grew into – unsaid – norms of friendship and family. And now, after the drama and hurt and complications, both Finn and Kurt would not have it any other way.

They simply wouldn't want to.

The lingering cold of the classroom settles into his skin, an involuntary shiver announced within his body, but he cannot find himself to care. With a watchful eye of the man at the chalkboard, he shimmies his phone out of his pocket, quickly stacking it into a sneaked position behind the folders positioned on the very edge of the table.

_Hey dude, text me back_

No response.

_Where are u?_

Ten minutes roll through, and it feels like a lifetime.

_Blaine's worried_

Maybe if he mentioned the boyfriend, (despite the fact he hasn't spoken to the black haired boy) his brother would get out of whatever mood he decided to be in today and actually respond to his more than frantic messages.

And yet, another ten minutes spark.

A sigh, and a hand brushes across his hairline.

_If this is about me using your cream 2 put on my ankle, im sorry :(_

Burt had told him Kurt bore supplements for just about everything in his room (no surprise there), and after Hudson sprained his ankle in practise, he sought the younger room, discovering he had a healing ointment just for that. When questioning the reason behind it, apparently Kurt came prepared after his first – and only – football game.

As the kicker.

Yes, Finn accidentally used the wrong cream, but 'accident' was the key word in the whole experience.

_I didnt know it was apart of ur face-night time care_

The class is half-way over. And even if Kurt was mad at him, the younger wouldn't resist an opportunity to rub it in Finn's face in a construction and language he would only pretend to understand. Even if he was mad, he wouldn't skip class, thus miss the chance to silently comment about their teachers fashion sense as he sits in the back with Mercedes.

 _"Ah,"_ he would say, " _today he has gone for the ‘please help me I’m homeless but apparently can afford to fuse a technicolour blazer with nothing but what seems to be Walmart trousers’ look_. "

And yet… the opposite end was silent.

_Dude, come on._

Finn is eventually pulled from his thoughts by the embarking stare of Mr. Greene, evidently having torn the device from his hands, confiscating it until the end of his English lesson. Not before he is able to grab a quick view of a message from Tina, something about Kurt not being in first class Home Ec.

The temptation to claim a family emergency is high within his bones, though he had no such evidence. For all he knew, Kurt would make an entrance in the next minute. It was his first English class back, and Finn should only expect Hummel to create the mood of a fabulous, arriving late and making a scene moment; it was merely in his nature. He stares at the door, willing for this to happen.

Soon, to distract himself, he instead drums his fingers against his thigh under the desk, mirroring the previous tapping of his index finger and thumb against the phone. Unconsciously, his attention continues to be drawn to the back corner seat of the classroom, where Mercedes sits in isolation as opposed to the usual company. She and Finn don't share concerned glances per say, but a mere sense of knowledge.

Knowledge that Kurt isn't there.

He gives Blaine a call when the class is let out, and while it turns straight to voicemail, he leaves a message.

He decides against calling Burt – there wasn't reason to call the man. If he called Burt, then it would actually, in a sense, seem real: that there was something wrong.

Hell, for all Finn knew, his step-father knows exactly where the boy is. Maybe he was feeling sick and went home. Maybe he's already alerted his father of the reason behind his disappearance and when Finn came home that afternoon, he would be met with the uptight attitude of his brother, still pissed about the minor loss of his cream. Albeit the strange, sinking feeling within the pit of his stomach shall not cease, and the boy can't help but assume the worst. Especially given the fact that a quick glance around the classroom before leaving showed a severe lack of letter men jackets.

Since Kurt's transfer back to McKinley, yes, Karofsky had died down, even begun the pathetic excuse of protection towards the boy, (along with Santana – he still didn't know where that came from). Though that didn't mean the rest of the jocks, that Azimio had halted his actions in continuing hierarchy within the halls of McKinley High.

Finn had promised, twice, that he would keep Kurt safe. And since he failed the first time he wouldn't do it again.

So, with a heartfelt dedication, he directs himself towards the cafeteria, trying to rid the worrisome boy from his mind. And, momentarily, he manages to. Scooting in upon the groups table, he automatically shifts into Quinn's side, pushing the practical slop upon a tray into the centre to indicate it was up for grabs. It wasn't only the foul smell and sign of unholy mixtures that turned him off it; he just wasn't feeling up to his normal appetite for the day.

"Where's Hummel?" Noah soon questions after the topic of conversation is changed (Finn unaware of what it was), muffled by the food in his mouth, lips slightly drooled of the flowing liquid that could not be contained. A snarky, _'would you jump in his grave that quickly?'_ from Santana, watching in disgusted hues and furrowed brows as he took no time in calling Finn's meal his own. Though the taller takes no notice to it, or to anything for that matter. Dazed momentarily, his oculars instead find landing upon the window straight ahead of him - the one just above the table that no one sits at because its heated rays are far too much on a summer's day.

Kurt had taught them that: claimed he was saving them all from slowly developing skin cancer.

"-inn. Finn. Finn!"

Snapping from his seeded thoughts, he distantly hears Mercedes explain that Kurt is a social hoe and shouldn't be surprised if he doesn't sit with them, and that most lunches he is on the phone with Blaine, anyway. He is also met with the sharp glare of his girlfriend, _'are you even listening to me?'_ and the raised brows of the other New Directions.

Before he has even a chance to open his mouth in response, the vibration from his phone alarms against his leg, and without a breath he scoops it up.

"Blaine! Is Kurt with you?"

Hudson manages to ignore sudden pang of concern spread amongst each of his friends faces – even Puck – but brushes them off as soon as the calming tone from the other end corners him.

"No, Finn – what's wrong? What's happened to Kurt?"

The message left on Blaine's phone, he now realises, was perhaps a tad dramatic. Already placing Kurt into the position of an injured state, where, really, no one could find him. That was all. He wasn't even gone long enough for it to be considered gossip yet. Finn can sense the concern ridden behind the boy's words, though he manages to keep just like the Dalton uniform: stable, calm and poised. He'd really have to ask how he does that.

A breath, "I just can't find him… have you spoken to him?"

A pause, and it is the longest, most daunting endurance he thinks he has ever experienced.

"You- you can't find him? What… where else would he be, apart from being with you, Finn?"

The boy decides to brush past the accusatory timbre in the other's voice. Blaine was more than hesitant about Kurt transferring back, not in the _slightest_ believing Karofsky’s apology, and that he was going to leave the bullying and hate behind. Dave _promised_ and Kurt believed him (or perhaps he was just clouded by his sheer desire to return to his friends), and Finn, for the first time, followed in Kurt’s actions.

Blaine, however…

"Look, dude, I was just wondering if you've spoken to him. I know he's been catching up on some school work with his teachers, so he's probably off doing that. I shouldn't have called."

Finn can practically see Blaine brush a hand through his hair, accompanied by furrowed, worried brows, "yeah, that sounds like him. Would you- would you get him to call me when you talk to him next?"

The phone conversation ends with Finn assuring him, _'yeah man'_ and he hangs up with a smile. Quickly fading as he turns back towards his friends.

Unconsciously clenching his teeth behind sealed lips; afraid that if he opens them, desperate confessions will ramble out. He squirms a little in his seat. He had convinced himself that Kurt was off doing who-knows-what with his boyfriend but that idea practically broke apart in front of him when contacting the Warbler. And even so, Kurt had never skipped a class in his life, and English was a personal favourite. He takes charge however, after a quick review of the morning (backed up by Tina, who explained Kurt wasn’t in first period, either). He instructs a split group amongst the teens, simply with the aim of stalking school and finding Kurt.

Puck claiming they skip the next class as the halls would be empty, and it would be easier to find the kid. And if he needed to hit anyone it could be done without swarming crowds of infesting students, the ones who feed upon the slightest taste of disorder. That would have to be considered development for Puck, as these days he preferred to have a _reason_ to ‘beat the crap’ out of someone; rather than just doing it.

They would find Kurt, and then 'grill him' (as Mercedes so pleasantly suggested) for making them worry. Even if there was nothing to really worry about. He had only been back a week, and consistent supervision was still settling within each member of the Glee Club – he needed to be safe. Finn knew this better than any. He was just freaked _because_ he was back, and a minute in separation without one member of the group by his side formed silent chaos. He has assumed the worst, and evidently planted the same fear into the heads of his friends.

Kurt was fine. Kurt was always fine.

In the end, before his life evidently changes, and he is provoked to an image that shall never leave his conscience, he leaves twenty one missed calls, sixty messages, and eleven voice messages.

And all he wants is for Kurt to yell at him for taking up so much space on his phone, and then him having to grudgingly delete the unneeded content.

He wants Kurt to yell at him so that he can rid himself of these sickening ideas that continue to swarm his head.

***

The classrooms are briefly checked, sticking his head into the doorways without care that the classes are progressing. When the block is checked, he rounds the corner and follows up the next row. Expecting to hear some sort of theme music that accompanies him like a horror movie; daunting and expressive, like something is going to jump out and give him a heart attack.

'I'll Stand By You' is alternatively heard from a distance and Finn recognises it as the allocated ringtone his brother chose for him no more than a week after he sung it. In its thirty second duration, Finn automatically presses the 'call back' button, though he is met with voicemail immediately, and his heart jumps off a cliff.

Instead, 'Bitch' is played, and he remembers it's the song Kurt used for Santana simply because she’d requested. He follows that, phone clenched harshly in hand, as he hurries through the now cleared hallways. Thankful for third period, that the halls are empty and he can hear the slowly rising music. Finn suddenly stops, not realising - and he wouldn't until he searches drastically and helplessly later on - his phone slides from his suddenly numb fingers and crashes upon the floor.

The boys locker room. He should have known. Why didn't he sense it?

With a shaking hand – geez, he doesn't remember being this freaked, this angry since the truth about Puck and Quinn came to light: maybe he's even more freaked, now.

He crouches to the floor, not to retrieve his own phone, but the one that lay scattered in the bare distance from the doorway. The one that is on two percent of charge from the screen (still) lit mercilessly from calls and messages of worry. The phone, that Finn barely takes a glance at to recognise the (now) cracked screen and the case slightly peeled off – as though it has been thrown, or dropped and kicked away, Finn silently brainstorms.

He shuffles the phone into his pocket, just as the light fades to black. Kurt would hate that. It took so long to reboot once it lost complete charge.

His own phone lights up from Quinn, _Finn… check the locker room, yeah? I don't want to think it… but, just do it, okay? Love you._

Finn didn't have the opportunity to read the message, or to marvel at the genius mind of his girlfriend, for he steps past the phone, and opens the door instead.

He doesn't even hear his exclaimed _'oh god!'_ echo throughout the thin walls, nor the continued running water that splashes in the first shower stall.

For a good two minutes, perhaps even five, he simply stands there – completely and utterly dumbstruck. A shattered exhale of breath and a quiet _'Kurt?'_ is sounded before he stalks towards the boys limp form.

Hands completely useless, shaken and suddenly frozen, Finn hardly remembers the next few minutes, though concentrates on it like it's his lifeline. He remembers stringing a phrase of useless reassurances together; he remembers cupping the boy's wet cheek and a few questions of his name. He doesn't even notice that his own clothes and warmth are becoming victim to the running shower. More like a prison than a school's locker room, he suddenly realises. Kurt's entire body is utterly shaken, shivering uncontrollably beneath his gentle touch, and yet no sign of life is offered. Hair flattened against his forehead, individual droplets plummeting towards the ground.

And that is when Finn notices it.

The odd and inhumane poise of his usually upright, chin high, back straight and confident brother. This… this was not Kurt. From the stressing limp, to the odd colouring of the water that swirls down the drain without care or caution. To which, Finn quickly recognises the pinkish tint that is devoured in the blink of an eye by the swimming surface.

Why is he _analysing_ this; why can’t he _move quicker_?

His brother looks like some kind of wounded animal.

He remembers, only a few nights prior, flicking through the night stations when he couldn't sleep, and instead becoming traumatised when he decided upon the news and it revealed the butcher and torture of an endangered species Finn can't remember the name of. He does, however recall the picture of the deceased animal, hanging to its last limbs as it shadows in the face of death. Finn shut it off as quick whence it came – though he is seeing it all over again.

Kurt looked dead.

And his face – _god_ his _face_. Red rimmed, purple splotches and gentle cuts spur amongst his pale features. He was always pale – but this? He was so damn picky about the products he used each night that he practically spends hours before bed sorting and rubbing. Now, however, he looked nauseated, and Finn wouldn't have been surprised if he had have thrown up already.

Of course, Finn only sees a bare minimum of this through blurred hues, and he can't decipher the difference between the tears and the dripping water from the oddly spraying shower head above. As if endurance was not enough, but Kurt’s clothes had to be drenched perhaps beyond repair?

Right. He really needed to turn that off.

"I've got you, Kurt, I've got you you're okay you're going to be okay, I promise I promise…"

He is unaware if his words are spoken aloud, and if they are directed to his brother or for his own attempt at some sort of comfort.

The butt of his pants are soaked in the surface of the shower, leaning desperately against the wall of the confined space, he realises he would never again be able shower after training. Not with this image already burned into his mind. By the shoulders, he draws Kurt to his body attempting to provide even the slightest simmer of heat, a clumsy dead weight in his arms. Finn relentlessly shakes the kid in the grave strive for the opposing to stir to life – to no avail. Holding him as though he is precious cargo, (which in this case, he was) Kurt's face is pressed into his broad chest, hands tucked between the two bodies. He swallows something unkind, when the faint, white peak of bone spurts from Kurt’s wrist, like a daisy blooming for the first time. Oh God, oh God, oh God. 

The next few minutes are without a doubt, a pained, yet slightly forgotten memory.

Using his free hand, the one that is not pressed so tightly against Kurt's back, that he fears if he releases it the younger will fall from his grasp and never return. He checks his pocket for his phone, cursing louder than intended as he remembers its position stranded outside the room. And Kurt's phone was out of charge.

But he wasn't going to leave Kurt. Wasn't going to leave his family. Finn is paralysed — he doesn’t know what to do but hold Kurt and will him to wake up. To offer a sign of his quirky tone and bask in speech Finn would roll his eyes at.

When asked later by his step-father at the hospital, he genuinely doesn't remember Quinn entering the scene (she would later explain that she and Puck – Puck was there? – grew intense worry when no response was given to her text so they confronted the locker room themselves).

He initially can't recall Quinn calling out at Puck to contact an ambulance, nor her gentle, prying fingers and soothing tone to look over the boy in his arms. But he soon enough remembers.

Finn, however, does remember screaming like a child who is being stripped from a candy bar when Quinn first tries to take a glance of the vulnerable friend. Perhaps he yelled so drastically, however, as his hand is drawn back from the back of his brothers head. His palm is met with unrealised red; he can't comprehend the sticky yet odourless element.

Quinn's voice is gentler than his; she doesn't yell like he did when he first saw him. The way she holds him, brushes with only her index finger and thumb, the brunette tresses from the ruby laced forehead... he was convinced that he provided further harm towards Kurt when handling him, for Quinn looks practically angelic.

She is barely touching him, yet the stained crease of strain between Kurt's brows and beside his lips already seem to fade. As the edges of her skirt become plagued with the shallow line of dirty water, she continues to whisper in that light, fluttering tone that could be performed in such condescending means - it has been a long time since he has seen her so scared, so unguarded. Clearly keeping herself in somewhat of a dignified state for the position of the youngest.

She orders for Puck to give her the phone as she seemingly is aware of what to say to the officials. The way she passes off Kurt, like he is a valuable party favour towards Noah only briefly, requesting he take him away from the showers floor as she pulls a red, fluffy towel from one of the banisters. Softly demanding placement and the best sense of comfort to the unconscious.

If he thinks hard enough, though, he recollects his best friend hauling him from under the arms after looking more than uncomfortable holding Kurt, (and thankful when Quinn's opened arms take the boy back), and pulling his numb figure from the floor. Eyeing as Quinn completely takes over, comforting Kurt and speaking into the phone in a calm yet pressed tone.

As if it mattered. As if any of it mattered.

It still happened in a place Finn spent hours convincing Burt would be safe. Quinn's words of kindness and a confident demeanour that everything was going to be okay flew over his head like those birds did when he went out skateboarding. She didn't see what he did. Didn't witness the awkward position that gave the impression his brittle bones were to break in half if handled the wrong way.

Kurt was supposed to be safe here; he wasn't supposed to need Dalton anymore.

How wrong he was.

Will has always told him that any situation, any moment was an opportunity to learn, to come to terms with something never known before. Hardly appropriate in the current time, Finn nevertheless showcases timid, silent epiphanies: to be vulnerable was to be human. To hold a particular course, an emotion that triggered each, and every other to implode, to react. To be vulnerable, was to hold passions and wish to God that you didn’t.

And both spawns of the Hudson-Hummel Clan would not only recognise, but live off this feeling for who knows how long. Particularly Finn, for he is the one in the heat of the moment, who is well aware of the state in surrounding.

It’s almost a grace that Kurt isn’t awake – that way he can’t see him like this.

Not only could he not control the shaken breaths that part his trembling lips, but, he supposes, it’s more the lacking handle on the situation in itself. That he couldn’t control this, or at the very best stop it from happening.

Surrounded in a musky, less than wholesome scent, the foul aroma of sweat and unexplained aspects that he’d rather not look further into suffocate him. It was a boy’s locker room, after all, and stereotyped managements aside… it was hardly a location one wished to linger. It wasn’t the smell or the dirty atmosphere that shook his core and distorted his sight. Physical reaction pulsated his veins, and he feels himself balance upon reality and the delusion of cleanliness he wishes to delve into.

Earlier, he could have dealt with it. Could have viewed the room alongside its occupants through rose-coloured glasses (he wanted to, he _desperately_ wanted to). Gripping hold of the situation; both hands on the reigns and taking the charge of what to do at each and every stop. It was bad, but Kurt was the strongest person he knew.

He could breathe, and simply assess the room in wet, shaken, terrified eyes.

Control he believed he possessed soon interrupted by the graces of something kinder, but he chose not to see it in this way.

But the others were here. Quinn and Puck and the whole thing strikes him with a shard of reality.

He fell silent, incoherent rumblings and the whisper of a smile fracturing the muscles in his face. He was trying too hard to make this right; to piece together a sensible reason as to why this has happened. Words fluttering, telling Kurt he would be okay and that he was here to look after him, despite not even in close proximity to the figure.

Quinn suspects later, as she would brush her hand through Kurt’s hair at his bedside, that it was simply a coping mechanism. She would tell him the embedded (and somewhat frightening) comfort that Finn pressed when inside the locker room, albeit grave and unchanging. Acts of such brotherly tenderness that Quinn, in any other situation, would have been proud of.

 _“We lost him for a bit there,”_ she soon tells him, tone hitched, as though she is pushing weights to release the voice and complete the run-on sentence. _“He was so… frightened. For you, and I think for himself; what he would do if you…”_ Quinn wouldn’t explain that Finn lost his own hold on reality for a good moment when she entered the scene. Nor would she tell him that in her entire high school life, never has she gazed upon the male in such trembling alarm and surprise of the desperate mannerisms he revealed.

For Finn: the innocent, yet experienced boy thought it was only yesterday’s gravy and banana peels; the occasional dead rat, just to offer another length of glamour to the accustomed dumpster tosses. Even being shoved into the metal doors of the lockers that dressed the edges of the hallways. Sometimes Kurt would fall, but most of the time he would simply inhale, perhaps offer a word of genius distaste, though nonetheless continue. He never thought this could happen.

The unmoving, unresponsive weight under his hand.

Puck had gotten him away, worked patiently with unbalanced feet and sat him down. He was shaking and cold, too, sitting on the same bench that he helped Kurt get into the _‘clown pads’_ when he first joined the football team. He had stifled a response then, and was now glad he hadn’t made a comment regarding the boy’s fashion, and his objection to the protective padding in the shoulders. As though insulting him would have returned today, and given Finn the dose of guilt that he ever offended him.

When he does manage to focus, even for a second, a swarming inclination of protection roars in his ears, eyeing the almost motherly identity Quinn possesses.

Kurt’s head in her lap, a hand pressed against his cheek, and the other dropping the phone onto the tiles below her. Right. The ambulance. Quinn had already called. Why couldn’t he remember that? They needed help, and they needed it now.

“Finn, you’ve got to calm down.”

He can’t tell if that is the voice of the best friend, or if it is coming from the girlfriend; either way it would hardly make a difference. His breaths aren’t functioning, falling upon a pathway he can’t quite fathom. In sharp, rigid releases, his stomach tightens, twisting into a great knot that causes him to almost topple over.

_“Hey buddy, can you hear me?”_

_“Jason, patient is non-responsive; we’ll need to bag him.”_

_“Got some vitals for me?”_

_“You’ll need to get out of the way, son.”_

_“High and thready. Respiration is decreasing.”_

_“…Quinn, it was? Quinn, I need you to keep that warmth. There are evident signs of a concussion, and I would prefer not to move him just yet. Jason, keep track of his airway…”_

_“…quickly, to the side – keep his chin elevated, Quinn, I’m going to need you to hold up his head. Move out from under him…”_

_“Buddy, you have to let go.”_

_“Put the towel under his head, in balance with his legs.”_

_"…mild case of hypothermia, fractures to – son, I need you to help me here. Hey, I know this is difficult, but you need to calm down, okay? Hey –”_

_"Finn! Hey, honey, you need to let go of his hand; they need to work. They’re going to help him, okay, Finn look at me, look_ at me –”

“Fricken hell!”

His shoes are ruined. Remnants of what looked just like his uneaten lunch taking over the material, though snapping him into reality by the foul smell which they provide.

A horrified – yet excited – glance to Kurt, expecting that if he can release his stomachs containment’s, that consciousness has reached him.

Not for the first time (in the span of what, a half hour?), he is more than wrong.

His exclamation had been predominately in surprise and a clement of fear. He wasn’t exactly expecting a startle to life; thus an unforeseen jolt of movement took him by the shoulders and whirled him in surprise. Finn shifts uncomfortably, scrunching his nose but squeezing both his hands around Kurt’s left one. Silently praying (though his last encounter with the man upstairs wasn’t all it was cracked up to be), and demanding that the boy wakes up.

How could be throwing up if he wasn’t even awake? The noises are unholy yet enticing all the same; he can’t tear his eyes away. Or apparently, his hand.

“Finn, you need to let go of his hand.” He keeps blacking in and out; words swarming around him mercilessly and he decides they stand of least importance.

He is crouched beside one of the paramedics he can’t recall entering the scene; the one that isn’t Jason – he remembers that name being spoken by the young male. He looks too young to be doing this. How can he be helping Kurt when he looks no older than a senior? How can he know what to do? How can he…

“Finn, come on, I’m going to sit you right over here, get out of their way, and let them help Kurt. Okay?”

_No no no he needs me. He needs… he doesn’t have anyone and what’s with all the noise and the desperation and where the hell did Puck go? And what’s wrong with Kurt? What did they do to him?_

Kurt’s words from the wedding preparation lap inside his mind and he thinks it’s the first time he’s ever really studied something. Concentrated so hard that he actually understands it.

_He threatened to kill me._

It had never sunk in before; never been real to Finn.

But now there’s blood. On the floor, on his hands, on Kurt. And he wasn’t breathing and. And.

Not-Jason instructs a phrase of medical language Finn can’t comprehend one word of. Mainly because he can’t understand it for the life of him, but also because he can’t hear it.

Now, he can only feel her. Quinn. Lightly dancing the tips of her fingers amongst his cheek as she attempts a reassuring smile and murmurs useless commiserations that he would be okay and he was in the hands of only the best. She grounds him, keeping him from climbing to his shaking feet and returning to Kurt’s side.

Wait, why is he back on the other side of the room? Why can’t they just let him stay with his brother? He found Kurt initially, turned that damn shower off and tried to keep him warm and dry; Puck took him away. When he finally found his way back to the boy’s side, held his hand, comforted him (or at the very best, tried to), he was only stripped away once more.

The doctor who soon cares for the situation would later explain that he had delved into a state of shock. Finding a loved one, or anyone for that matter – she explained carefully yet sternly, aware Finn is hardly paying attention to his own diagnosis – in such a compromising position was enough to set him into a condition of his own. Finn would be told his blood pressure took a significant drop, and the clammy moisture that laced his hands was upmost concerning. This is why his memory is jagged – why it seems like he is in one place at a moment, and then swarmed off into another, like a herd of chickens being ushered into their pen for the night.

Finn babbles a string of guilt and frustrated words, choked out. He can’t make them form any sense and Kurt can’t hear them, anyway. He just – he just needed to calm down.

Dispersed breaths eventually create a balance and his eyes don’t provide that fuzziness in its corners that make him want to pass out. As if he was the one who needed the attention in this whole circumstance.

“Someone…” he burrows his head into the palms of his hands, digging his wrists into his eyes; an attempt at focus, at concentration. Rubbing his eyes harshly, he collects himself to figure out where to go from here.

“…needs to call Blaine.”

He briefly hears his girlfriend mumble something in response, though is drowned out by his own growing, excessive white noise that he can’t concentrate upon her even if he wanted to. Clenching and blenching his fists three or four times, breaths are taken under the gentle instruction of the girl, and his eyes are opened just in time to catch the paramedics lifting Kurt upon the stretcher he can’t recall being wheeled inside. His feet allow balance, finally, and he manages to seize his final words in remembrance.

Quinn places a hand against his shoulder, shaking her head and forcing him to return to his seat; that is what Kurt needs, apparently.

“I’m riding with him.”

Going against the girl, and making his position more than known, he smoothly, though still ever lightly disorientated upon his figure, turns residence beside the bed on wheels, forcing a smothering smile towards the kid on the bed. The kid now hooked up to an oxygen mask – damn, Kurt would hate what this is doing to his skin – with his clothes ever damp and trailed with a marginal layer of his breakfast (he had waffles, Finn calls to mind) that the older has to gag back upon.

A short decline flies over his head as he once more grips the hand of his brother; apparently he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to be escorting them towards the hospital… that he shouldn’t be around the patient. They understood he cared, but would prefer an adult, someone immune to the first hand degree of the impact to trail behind and drive him if he was so desperate to escort – they questioned Quinn to ride with Kurt.

“He’s my brother,” is the only required argument, agreement settled amongst the four.

His actions are suddenly making more sense. Quinn offers a simmering smile, explaining that Puck has cleared off the hallways and demanded that _‘any punk who is out here when me and my boys come out is gonna have to deal with Puckzilla’_ , a threat that went over the head of many. Provoked, however, at a sophomore’s comment of _‘the fag got what was coming to him’_ ; a bloody nose and a crying sophomore later, the vast majority split.

_“He’s my brother.”_

***

Puck was wrong.

The moment sirens churned and paramedics raced inside the school, the hallways were busier than a zombie pile-up.

People stare, regardless that it is third period and lessons should be progressing. Students brush out of their classrooms in haste and curiosity; a majority restricted as some teachers close over their doors with a slam and a shake of the head – a silent judgement of the horrific standards that have, and continue to be provoked upon the recently returned teenager. They always have, and no one can see an end to it.

Though it was not like more than a handful of teachers tried to help, let alone do their job and stop said actions.

This still happened.

McKinley wasn’t exactly a place of riveting tribulations. Aside from meaningless nevertheless captivating gossip, the largest piece of news – that was known to be true – in the whole month was Cheryl Brendon’s new job at Starbucks, where she was able to give herself and two friends a ten percent discount. Who she was going to select was, for weeks, formidable and exciting.

In accordance to its lack of truthful news, the physical evidence of hurried students – even if they were from the lowest of the low – stirred the minds of many and opened questions as to what exactly was occurring.

Blood - ambulance - and a short lived fight.

The three key words that engendered the gossip which would be spoken about for at least the next  _two_ months.

It would be taken up in blogs, whispered in the halls, and some were even sure to stick their gaze into the choir room in passing, just to see the continuation of the fateful day.

Where Noah Puckerman punched the lights out of a purred comment, the boy simply trying to fit in amongst the known ‘facts’ of the school, but speaking a tad louder than intended to his friend beside him.

Where Finn Hudson, the one who could once claim popularity over all, bore crimson identities in his clothes, and took no shame in clutching the gay kid’s hand. Walking with cheeks wetter than the boys got when Cheerios would merely pass by.

Where a hurried mess of statements from two unknown males pass, and some strain their ears to figure out the condition.

Where Quinn Fabray followed behind them, phone clutched in hand as she takes Noah by the arm, screams something about Hummel, and orders him to pull out his car keys.

They are all gone as quickly whence they came, and the remaining population of the school settles back into class, hardly concentrating and instead mumbling their thoughts and the occasional hypothesis as to what the hell happened.

Finn somehow finds the time to wonder if in a year he will put this into the category of ‘That’s Just What Being Gay in Lima Does to You’.

Like the dumpster tosses and the pee balloons and the locker slams and just the having to change your life every time someone opens their mouth to say boo.

***

The skin is calloused, dry and unclean. All things that should not befall the category of what his brother’s hands should feel like.

He has never held the hands particularly – never had a reason to. Brittany once told him that ducks fat laced his palms, and she couldn’t understand why it didn’t give her the same effect when the fat of a pig was used on hers. She had told him Kurt was a genius and should be put into a museum for his ideas.

At the wedding, he supposes, was one of the first times he really felt the others hands, though was too distracted by the concentrated attempt to keep up with the steps alongside control of his feet, that he hadn’t really paid attention to them. He never thought he would have a real reason to want observe something as simple, as normal as a hand.

Howbeit, Finn now craves the knowledge as to what they once felt like. To cling onto the perception of their assured warmth and unwrinkled base. The perfectly curved nails that he rounded each night, sitting atop the slender, pale tips that had a strangely limited amount of bumps and scratches for someone who gets pushed around so much.

Then again, a good few months in Dalton seemed to heal more than the emotional damage that had been pulsated within the walls of the public school; the physical aspect of what he took on was also given an opportunity to restore.

Not like now. While he grips onto the hand in a sense that it’s the only thing keeping his own heart pumping… man, he wishes he could just let it go. But it is suddenly so evoking, so important that Finn finds himself remaining his hold upon it for the entire trip...

“No, no-”, the first words, scratchy and harsh, spoken from his awkward climb into the back of the vehicle, to their eventual stop upon the pebbled grounds.

They issue him out from the back, uncomfortably separating him from the younger. He didn’t like that.

“We should go to St. Mary’s… his… _my_ mum works there, and – and-”

At least if they were in his mothers’ environment, a sense of comfortability could succour for the younger.

Then Burt would be called and Kurt would wake up and everything would be okay. It just had to be.

“This isn’t right – he doesn’t like people in his personal space. He would be comfortable with mum – hey, he would…”

Finn knew what it felt like to be listened to; before falling under the denomination of a ‘New Direction’.

He had a whole team upon the grassy surface outside the school’s set halls. Boys who were willing to follow him without the mere blink of an eye. At least this is how he once stood in the claimed hierarchy… now he couldn’t quite tell. But he still can detect the signs: the slight accomplishment that keeps his head held higher, to the pleased state of power in his actions.

Never, like he is now, has he ever experienced the sheer notion of practically being invisible.

_“Is there someone you can call? His father has been contacted, though you mentioned something about your mother? Would you like us to call her for you?”_

_***_

His legs are long and uncomfortable, but no matter how many times he shifts or tries to gain a better position, he reaches no conclusion. So instead, he fruitlessly clasps and compresses the bottom of the plastic cup he was given a good ten minutes prior. Drumming his fingers against his thigh, he doesn’t take note of when the cup falls to the ground in his silent haste. Planting his head into the left palm of his hand, he works his thrumming in harmony with his fingers, soon to develop a minor headache from the somewhat harsh motions.

It isn’t until a cautious, yet ever fluttering hand upon his forearm does he raise dimmed oculars and stare into the green of the young female. Finn doesn’t feel the body heat illuminating from her (he usually does), not even when Quinn presses her ear into his shoulder blade and takes his hand into hers. Ultimately calming his shakes, subsequently allowing a simmering flow moult and take habitat upon her cheeks, just as they do his.

“…parking the car around the back in the lot. He nearly crashed a few times,” he doesn’t register whether she releases a laugh of frustration or attempting to place a dignified humour to the situation. “I don’t know if he was more concerned for you or Kurt. You both had us a little… well, it wasn’t an easy thing to walk in on.”

Finn decides against his thoughts; Quinn is far too sophisticated for that. No, she wouldn’t try to make light of such an ordeal, but she would carry through it in mannerisms and a puncture that Finn could only dream of possessing. The touch of her fingers around the nape of his neck is somewhat relaxing, and Finn is sure that he is losing himself to the light inclination of a deserved rest.

Though he doesn’t want to – he needs to be awake for every second just in case. Though his ill-timed lacking memory serves anything but well as he is already losing fractures of the day.

Obsessed with the future, what would come next, when Kurt would wake up. Finding him, the ride there, to the eventual separation when Kurt was taken off to emergency – a thought that still churns his stomach. The biggest emergency Kurt should have is a sale announcement. These events can be forgotten; there was nothing to be changed. Nothing but what was to come.

Momentarily, the corners of his eyes become grey, and his tight hold upon the reality fades. With nothing keeping him to, but the pattern she runs against his skin, and her dwindling words about Puck’s whereabouts _(he should be up in a few minutes),_ and that Kurt was sure to be fine, _(he was strong, and would see through it),_ he trails off fruitlessly.

He wakes, nine minutes later with his chin pressed against his chest, and a new pair of hands brushing at his features.

These hands aren’t Quinn’s.

They stand not soft in youth nor energetic in stature. But they’re experienced, older, and with stories to tell.

They are the hands that tucked him to bed each night; that flicked the hallway light on after the first time he watched ‘Halloween’ at age seven.

Hands he knows, perhaps trusts more than anything.

Though it is not the timid _‘wake up honey’_ , that springs him from his unwanted and regretted sleep. It is something much worse; something that is sure to haunt his conscience and remain within him in reminder every time he simply glances at his step-father.

A command of information, and a tone perhaps higher than even Kurt can conjure.

Finn unknowingly grips upon his mother’s hand – who seats in front of him, kneeled, glancing up – as the day smothers him in a wave that he struggles to not drown from. He thinks it may be easier if he just does, though.

Stains against the cheeks of the woman conveyed what it doesn’t take a genius to uncover. Red rimmed hues and a failed attempt at offering a comforting smile, so poor that Finn can’t even imagine how Burt is dealing with this.

What did they even know? And who called them? His brain hurt, and he could really do with another drink of that warm water.

He sees Puck and Quinn off in the slight distance, quickly becoming both eerily occupied, though confronted once he notices Rachel only a few feet from them. Mike practically holding her back from running over and embracing Finn.

_Just come over here!_

Despite the fact he doesn’t know whether he wants the enveloped arms of his mother or his ex-girlfriend around him, he cannot help the craved smell of her strawberry locks and the way she hums under her breath when hugging.

“The rest of your friends should be here soon, Finn,” Carole continues, cupping beneath his chin in order to focus his attention onto her, and not the slowly growing crowd that only seems to worsen the entire situation.

“Come on, honey, Puck brought up some clothes from the back of his truck you can wear… I’ll take you to the bathroom.”

Furrowing his brows; why did he need to get changed?

“N-n-no, I’ll do it myself… I-I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

He offers perhaps the most pathetic smile he has ever created to the woman, and with a silent nod of thanks to his best friend, scoops the shirt and pants that were folded neatly on the chair beside him, and follows the receptionist’s direction to the nearest restroom. He wants to say something to Burt, watching briefly as he frustratingly fills out the papers that are apparently required in order to further this horrid process, where all he wants to do is _‘see my damn son’_.

Finn supposes the man blames him as he doesn't even glance up: and rightfully so.

Finn blamed himself in a silent aspect, and while he wasn’t about to go all secret service protection on the boy, anything would have been better than this. If he had been closer to him at all times, even in distance and gotten to the locker room, or _thought_ of the locker room – perhaps he could never have stopped this, but could have at least delayed it; helped it, a little.

But he, like everyone, thought things were changing… that Kurt would stand in safety after a triumphant return from the uniformed school.

The bathroom is empty, cold and smells slightly of cleansing chemicals, like bleach or disinfectant. He supposes that this is a hospital, so they would be stocked to the brim of things like that.

He doesn’t know whether his clothes could be used for evidence – it wasn’t as though Kurt had lost every ounce of his blood (though it sure seemed like it; he was a small kid and it surprised Finn that he had that much in him) and the only remnants remaining was etched into the fine, concealed stitching of Finn’s shirt and pants.

And hands.

And a little in his hair.

Only because he pulled from its tips and ran his fingers through the tresses under a state of anxiety and upmost concern… it could not be helped. It wouldn’t be.

Puck’s clothes are a little small for him; the long sleeves of the shirt reaching an awkward position just above his wrists, and the pants a tad tight around his waistline. Nevertheless, anything, no matter how small or snug, was better than a presentation provided unkindly by his brother and his own dripping blood. Stained in smudges and stripes, the crimson bore the material, and even if his mother could rid the clothes from it, he never again wished to wear them.

If they were needed, the officials could get them from the bin. Finn didn't want to lay his eyes on them ever again.

Not with an ounce of preparation, he leaves the bathroom empty handed within seconds of arriving.

After scrubbing his face, and running his hands underneath the water until the clogging sink tinges pink, Finn with not only a shaken posture, but a rattled heart too, departs the room of white and hygiene, and makes his way towards the group that slowly forms in the waiting room.

His mother and Burt are here, he knows that much.

Puck and Quinn too. And while Finn has never even seen Rachel and Mike share a confided conversation (save her requesting particular moves from the boy in order to better present – though not overshadow – herself within the spotlight), they had come together, or at least entered the hospitals doors in a partnership.

Finn guesses that a day like this could bring anyone in dual and create unknown partnerships and groupings. Each had the same thing on their mind, after all.

The familiar creak of rubber wheels against the ground. Artie. Which meant someone else had to be here given he couldn’t exactly travel on his own.

They were all there for Kurt.

Whether it be fashion sense or battling to the death for solos in Glee Club, there was no doubt that the boy was more than inclined and held a grave desire to be the centre of attention. It was simply in his nature. Something Finn could never quite fathom.

Being out and loud and proud only got him pushed around… but Kurt still did it.

No matter what.

Perhaps if he could see just how he had become the figment of everyone’s minds now, and that he is sure every student at McKinley High swirls and revolves their thoughts about him, maybe Kurt would tone it down a little. To practically save himself from the most daunting confrontation he has ever endured.

But Finn knows, really, that he wouldn’t.

Even if it killed him, Kurt would never hold admittance to championship over someone who belittled him – who tormented and forced someone ‘lesser’ than them to recoil under their touch or glare. He would do it simply out of spite, to show it didn’t affect him and continue on his way.

It was harder this time.

And no amount of snappish or quickly fired comment could take away what happened today.

He departs to see an unfamiliar white coat strapped upon a young woman speaking quietly to Burt (hat in hands, wringing them against it as though placing frustration onto something) and Carole. His mother’s eyes light in his direction and ushers him towards them with an outstretched hand.

Things suddenly turn into a clement of normality – this was a doctor who could tell them, tell _him_ about the results of what he found in the school’s environment. She would explain that rest and relaxation was the predominant factor in Kurt’s recovery process and by Monday the following week, he could be back at school.

That’s what Brittany might say.

And for this moment, he really wishes he held the optimism and positive vibes that she could. The innocence to believe everything would go back to normal.

Where, a ride in the back of an ambulance truck to a distressing waiting room conveyed another side of the story unfolding today.

And now, he was going to be told the consequences of idiotic brains and homophobic actions.

“Hi, Finn,” she is sweet; a clearly energetic girl who is toning down her usual stature to reflect the environment.

“I’m Doctor Spencer. There is no pressure whatsoever, but your mother here suggested you might want to accompany them. I was just about to take them to my office and—”

“Yes. I mean, yeah, if that’s okay? I’m only seventeen though, I don’t have to be like, an adult or anything, right? Cause I’m not, and…”

“Of course not, Finn.” The woman smiles, and with a nod of the head and an instruction to follow, the trio of heartfelt companions breach past the wide, concerned eyes of the New Directions that had arrived, soon to round the corner and enter the room.

And Finn feels like he’s going to throw up. How the hell has his day turned into this?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, liked and messaged me privately with regards to the first chapter of this story! It is so, so incredibly appreciated! Particular thanks to those who commented on my portrayal of Finn: he was the main character in writing this that I had my concerns as to whether I was doing him justice, but the affirmation and belief that I was capturing his essence was just amazing feedback!

_“They’re completely gender neutral, and I have the most perfect Karl Lagerfeld knit to compliment the line with – I assure you.”_

_“Yeah, uh, no thanks man, I’m not interested.”_

_“Suit yourself, though you still need to drive me. I’m not getting my car back until tomorrow and you did promise.”_

_“Yes, you don’t need to remind me, bro, just as long as I can wait in the car while you do… whatever it is in there. Mercedes still coming?”…_

“…can tell us how long he was, positioned in such a form, but it was clearly a dangerous frame…”

His face had been smothered, pitched into the crook of his arm. Finn hadn’t considered this, hadn’t even thought that his brother couldn’t breathe.

“…restricted his breathing, which, in its pinch compacted the pathway towards his brain, thus the head injury in contrast with… Finn? Finn would you like to take a moment?”

He concentrates upon the young woman, her vibrant hues sympathetic though downcast in stature, signalling him out amongst the two sitting on his left. He refuses, a shake of the head almost in indication to continue. But really, he doesn’t have a clue as to what they’re talking about and he doesn’t _want_ to know. He watches as his mother nods in full understanding (she would be able to translate) and grips the older male’s thigh. Hat still wringed within his hands, he doesn’t offer contact and she doesn’t push. Finn watches Burt, almost in a bewitched mannerism, stiff and sheet-faced, paling within every term whispered his way. Features of fury that if he stares hard enough, the doctor might crumble beneath his gaze and change her mind about Kurt.

Honestly, he can’t comprehend a word that is spoken, so instead he collects the portions he does fathom, and pieces it together collectively. As he sits with furrowed brows and works out the conversation to the best of his ability, it is a mere four words that allow a retrospective.

Apparently it was now a situation of _‘if he wakes up’_ ; only if he wakes up they can work to the best of their ability with personal reflection. That ‘if’ he wakes up it still might not be good. He knew what a concussion was, but more importantly he recalls the one time he slipped in the schools shower, bashing his head against the tiled grounds beneath his unbalanced feet. But even then, Tanaka found him within seconds of collision, sweeping him into the assistance needed. Even then, without wasted time Finn spent weeks turning away from bright lights and irritable formations upon the smallest of things.

Kurt had been there… for who knows how long. Probably, too, pressured to the tiles with intended force, rather than the clumsy behaviour he once promoted. Wet, shaken and _not breathing_.

There is a chance he could fall victim to damages in his brain; the way his face was positioned… because apparently your brain needs oxygen or it just stops working. Which was weird because Kurt’s brain, _anyone’s_ brain worked instantly, without doubt, a hundred times better than Finn’s did, so he would have to be fine. He was always rattling off useless facts and knowledge he didn’t need to know, most of which only Rachel or Mercedes really found interesting. Or Puck would pretend to be interested in the moment, only to churn fun later.

_She almost swaddles him. With a motherly intention and a base of nothing but the sheer kindness that a human should offer to another. When it is the four of them, before the noise and alarm and confusion settles in, and he is left to his own horrid imagination on what has happened. Her fingers interlock within the fluffy towel, hardly aware of what she is doing with it, though doing a damn good job at the façade that she does. Wet clothes possibly beyond repair would not seek the dryness it desired with the simple in-hand material. Quinn wraps it around his slightly (blink and you’ll miss it) trembling shoulders, cupping the corner and brushing it amongst his porcelain features and the destruction upon them. All involuntary movements. A timid smudge against his face, replications almost unseen between the McKinley High pride of red Quinn holds, and the substance of Kurt’s own._

_“McKinley High, we are on the lowest floor in the east corridor; the locker rooms. I don’t think so. Puck, is he breathing? I can’t—”_

_Her hands are occupied: one against the phone, the other wrapped around his shoulders. She was resigned, calm, with enough ease to chief the surroundings. Finn couldn’t see it, but Noah did. He saw the tremble in her own bodice, following how her fingers cup the phone so very tightly that the chance she could drop it is alarmingly high. Her fingers are turning pink from pressure._

_“Shit, it’s –” A pause. An important investigation. “Yeah, he is, Quinn, it’s faint but,” his fingers went to the boy’s neck, and an almost dramatic sigh of relief follows, “he’s here.”_

If only the trip to the mall four days prior stood in replacement of their argument. Not that the sentiment would forebode or change the outcomes of this fateful day, but perhaps it could dose the guilt that sustains him. That their last conversation (quite literally, it could have been their final) instead concluded in Kurt not bringing him his evening glass of milk; an occasion that now ended in television or the younger looking over Finn’s rushed homework. 

In his Dalton days, gossip would ensure and Finn would sense the anguish behind his brother’s eyes, and the fake cheer of interest presented in his tone. Kurt missed them all more than his fancy words could possibly comprehend; he just didn’t make a note of it in so many ways. That anguished sustainment behind blue eyes that Kurt himself would never intentionally reveal.

Which Finn never really understood.

Then again, his brother was probably the oddest dude he’d ever know, and why he decided to keep built emotions hidden behind a flight mask was unknown to him. Beady eyes always glowing like two intimidating pinpoints for the purpose of melancholy and protection. Like they cared if he appeared to be weak or sad or hurt. Like it would change their perception of him, or something. He should have known that they’d never care over a seemingly silly superstition… which, in a sense, annoyed him within his unspoken core. He held too much pride to request support, though hid it so well that Finn couldn’t even fathom it. He didn’t know which frustrated him more so.

The wafting aroma of stale food and the strong scent of coffee does not sit well within the empty containments of his stomach, unkempt within physical attributions; a sheer change from the bland walls and all-too dimmed lights that the hospital offers. Spencer retreated to the currently closed off room, where the curtains are drawn and the door is closed so no one could even get a glimpse of the boy they were all here for. When the somehow familiar essence of the waiting room with its perfectly rowed chairs and the bob of water from the cooler in the corner returns to perception, Finn’s furrowed brows are the first reaction to note the lack of known faces.

He had seen arriving and settling New Directions gain entrance though keep distance… where were they now? Puck and Quinn are the only ones remaining. They didn’t really just ditch Kurt like that, did they?

Quinn approaches him first, Noah clearly within a mind of his own as he remains seated with an odd, distant gaze in his eyes. She explains quietly, like it’s some secret government business, that his time in the bathroom consisted of Kurt’s father issuing the other kids out. Spoken beneath the claim of thanks, and adoration of support for his son… but he practically demanded that they head off and Finn would contact them when a settlement coursed over the family. With haste and hesitation, they departed the premises as so requested. When Quinn and Puck had taken up to follow, a simple _‘take a seat, we’ll be out soon’_ had the shaken pair lower themselves back, estranged as to be unsettled or comforted that they were offered (well, told) to remain. Quinn didn’t tell him Puck looks as though he’d prefer to be anywhere else; that he wanted to be replaced with one of who was asked to leave.

It was only them left in the silence and awkward coughs of others from the waiting room. It was only them lasting. And in that time she had taken it upon herself to-

_"Where is he?”_

Finn looks up to find the familiar piping of black and red, the concerned countenance expected instead revealed only in a twist of anger. The blonde flecked teenager in instinct striking her fingertips against Finn’s forearm, softly glancing towards the male upon entrance.

Finn takes silent note of the huffed breath evoked from his step-father, annoyance or dissatisfaction he can’t quite depict. Quinn doesn’t cower per say, but the way her fingers tighten against his forearm, alongside the guilt in her irises expresses plenty. Quinn had called Blaine, per his instruction back in the locker room. His _plea_.

“We just have to wait, son,” Burt swallows any sense of disgruntled behaviour in Blaine’s presence, placing a comforting hand upon the boy’s shoulder. He had no control whatsoever, not even upon who stormed the hospital’s walls as though they had the right. Finn knew that Burt really had no issue in the slightest of his son’s boyfriend in the picture… he supposes it’s because it was someone else who was alerted without his knowledge; without his permission. It was understandable, really. And Finn can’t believe he has read this situation with such insight that Kurt would actually be proud.

“No, not him,” Blaine removes himself from the elder’s touch, a glint in his eye that Finn has never seen someone in possession of.

“ _Karofsky_. Where is _he_?” The name is seethed. “Is he back at school? Is he here? Where is he?”

“Hey, calm down dude, we don’t even know if he did this,” Finn steps forth; the voice of reason.

“How the hell do you know? I said, I _said_ something would happen, but he,” a humourless laugh emits compacted lips, choking on his words, and running a hand within his tight locks. “He just wanted to go back to that school. With his friends, and Glee, and _you_ , Finn. And now look where he is, where we are.”

“We don’t know if it was him,” Finn repeats, clogged, like he is beginning to believe the accusatory tone.

“Of course he did, are you _kidding_ me?” Finn steps back, almost in protection, like Blaine is going to take a swing.

He knows he would, if it were Quinn in Kurt’s position.

He thinks he would break something if it were Rachel.

“He’s over it, with Kurt,” he reasons, “apologised and everything, Kurt accepted it.”

“You don’t know what-”

Silence suddenly compasses, anger turning to guilt as though he were about to unlock the door to a secret fantasy land.

The key in the ownership of only himself, and he assumes, Kurt.

“Don’t know… what?”

It’s Quinn, speaking for Finn as he clearly has lost the form of any response. Puck stands too, curiosity ablaze in his eyes, lips twisted towards a protective defence. Blaine doesn’t respond.

“What don’t we—”

“That’s enough.”

Finn had forgotten Burt was there. But his voice, calm and even poised is the departing conversation, and Blaine looks as though he could hug the man for halting the idea. Though he knows that Burt has heard the plight, the striking conversation that Blaine upheld, and his desperation to keep whatever it was a secret. It wasn’t over, and while the father doesn’t push it in the moment, Finn knows he will later.

Blaine retreats, twisting against his feet and finding solace within a perfectly placed chair, succumbed in deep breaths, carefully listening to Burt’s instructions. Anger wouldn’t help Kurt right now, and Blaine is well aware of this. Though that doesn’t help the want to express it. The _need_.

Finn awkwardly follows him, taking a moment to fill up a plastic cup from the dancing water of the tank to the left, passing it to him as he sits beside– he takes the seat directly next to him first, but casually replaces it with scooting one to the left, leaving a gap in between. He takes the time to slowly process Blaine through what he remembers the doctor telling him and his parents, shallow in speech, skipping over the burrowed details. He tells him his mother is off trying to get the inside scoop; that her history and work in other hospitals may branch to some sort of leeway.

Except he struggles instead to remember to the most minuscule word Spencer produced, when his brothers boyfriend glares from the cup in hand, silently nodding him on to explain everything. The plastic has been downed of liquid, crumbled under the strength of his fingers and the ignition of his sheer anger. From the minor, practically shrugged off case of hypothermia; he explains with a sense of content that Kurt would recover completely from that element. Though the spin upon the lacking breath, the haunting notion of brain damage, leaves Blaine upon the appearing verge of Finn when in the bathroom no more than an hour ago.

“You know, I’m not even surprised,” Blaine begins after a moment or so of silence. 

Burt, pulling up the unanswered paperwork from the elderly receptionist, leaning against the desk as he begrudgingly fills it in, glances up at the words.

Finn has lost Quinn and Puck, he’s sure that even if they’ve bid farewell and headed home that he wouldn’t have recognised it. “It’s like- it’s like I’m sitting here and waiting for the shock to set in, but it won’t because I _knew_ this would happen.”

Finn doesn’t know what to do – he never really does. Physically and emotionally, always seated with a shift in stance and concentration darting to and fro from the task at hand. Where conversations, he always supposed, was easier – he could focus upon the features of the other, drown upon the words and at least look as though he were invested. But this stands more in the category of the latter: his more than overwhelming emotions.

“And it’s so stupid, so _incredibly dumb_ ,” he’s glad Blaine continues, so that he won’t have to conjure his own pitiful attempt at a response; condolence, even? “But I’m glad he’s not even awake to see me like this, God it’s so—”

“He’s going to wake up.”

“Do you even understand what happened?” Finn knows it’s a strike against his somewhat idiotic stance, but he chooses to ignore it.

“He’s Kurt,” a smile forms upon his lips almost in silent amusement of the younger brother, “he’ll be fine. He always gets back up.” He doesn't realise his voice cracking on the last syllable. Finn takes a drink.

He’s saying it in a way that the words can repair all of this, and he glances up in the expectancy that Blaine will too, be reminiscing with regards to the boy he claims to adore. Instead, he’s met with the opposite. Not from Blaine, but himself; like a bipolar state or something – he remembers learning about that in school.

“He shouldn’t have gone to Dalton,” in a sudden change of mood, he blurts out under his breath, head flopped into the palm of his hands.

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“No, no not at you, man!” He quickly assures, hands held up in defence. “Or maybe he shouldn’t have come back, I dunno…” He trails, lost in the mess of muddled thoughts, the very ones Blaine suddenly finds all intriguing. “Like, he moved to be safe, right? And-and he was! And then when he came back, he was, for a while, but it’s just – it’s not –”

Against better judgment, Blaine gently places a hand against the bigger boy; an attempt of something comforting. It was as though Finn was finally gaining perspective; Blaine could respect that. Even though anger still surges within his stomach.

“But now he’s not safe anywhere, I guess, and if he’d just stayed at McKinley in the first place I could have protected him.” The word are spat, bitter, though with a behind shadow of sorrow. “Could have eased the guys into letting loose, leaving him alone. But he’s now just the kid who left, and came back: an even bigger target is on his back.”

“Finn-”

“I promised him,” he reminds through his teeth, “at the wedding, in front of _everybody_ that I would keep him safe, no matter what. I didn’t even get the chance!”

“Finn, you need to calm down,” Blaine notes the temper rising, his pitch, and a mother with a crying baby in the corner turns to look at them both.

“You don’t understand,” he responds in a dramatic whisper, “I suck, because Kurt needed me, like, ages ago and I was so freaked people would think I was gay or something too, so I didn’t help! I just really, really suck.”

“You’re here now, Finn.”

Blaine’s final words don’t mean squat to him. Luke Skywalker wasn’t there when his only known family died on Tatooine; he’d been a brat and only came around when it was too late.

Finn prays, with this literal image in his head, that he gets the chance Luke never did.

***

Rachel found his phone.

With a cracked screen and torn from its cover in the top right corner, but still working.

Finn was in his room when she had come around to drop it over, and in a so very un-Rachel way, too.

The brunette hadn’t even tried to see him, and he knew it would have be a perfect opportunity for her to barge into his door and scoop him into her tiny arms.

_‘See the way she holds him? The subtle but ever meaningful comprehension; he doesn’t feel anything for her, but in her touch again… he knows something could happen.'_

Rachel explained in upmost compassion in their days of ‘Friday Night Equals Bootleg Musical Night’, and as they watched the poorly filmed video, she felt the need to commentate. He couldn’t remember the name of the musical, though knew well enough that it ran in the bloodstream of his (then) girlfriends veins.

Finn wouldn’t have minded, if she had managed to seep her way into his bedroom. Hell, a fraction of him wishes that she had done just this.

‘ _Call me if you can, Finn. Puck took me home- you were with Blaine, I didn’t want to interrupt anything that could have been for your ears only. I’ll come over tomorrow. God is watching over him, I know that_.’ Quinn.

‘ _i took q home. call if u need anything k_ ’  Puck.

Six missed calls from Rachel – he’s surprised it’s not more.

‘ _I’m sorry I wasn’t there today, Finn. I didn’t hear about any of this, as I was caught up in meetings off campus all morning. I called your mother, and she told me it would be better if I checked up on the other kids; which I understand. If you aren’t in tomorrow, I’ll find an appropriate time to see you if you’re up for it. I will be heading to the hospital on my free period: 12pm – 1pm. Give my love to your mother and Burt_.’ Schuester.

‘ _Tell Lady Trousers that Ms. Benip was using foundation from the Dark Ages- we could see the line between vampire pale and disastrously applied tan. Might will him to wake up, given he’s a sleeper and always has to make everything about himself_.' Santana.

‘ _call me if you need. my mum makes hella good risotto if you guys aren’t up for cooking_.’ Artie.

‘ _I’m going to go all Lima Heights on the entire football team tomorrow, just you wait_.' Santana again.

He throws his phone to the floor after the second message from Santana, discarding the hundreds of others that are still marked as unread.

He really didn’t want to go home that night; he didn’t see the point given a final look at the tasteless clock on the hospital wall read ten past one… in the morning.

But apparently ‘visiting hours’ were more important than the support of the kid who drew them all there, and he was sent home with his head in his lap. With not only his mother – Blaine sleeps (Finn knows he’s not) in Kurt’s bed just down the hall. He hadn’t asked, hadn’t even considered it. But the raw, bloodshot expression in his dazed gaze, from Carole and Burt’s perception set him unfit to drive – particularly to the distance back to Dalton’s Dorms.

She convinces him at the offer of her own vehicle to the hospital the moment the doors open in the morning, so he can retrieve his car and see Kurt. And keep Burt company.

Finn is sure that his mother was just as frustrated when she (a nurse, for crying out loud) had the rules of visiting hours locked onto her.

So really, he doesn’t know why he’s surprised when he wakes up at six o’clock exactly to the sound of bustling from below, followed all too quickly from the car pulling out, heading exactly where it was promised the night prior. He spends the entire morning battling whether or not he should have accompanied the boy; the entire morning lying awake in his brother’s bed. It took no more than ten minutes to trudge down the hall, and scoop himself beneath the covers. All in the attempt to feel something. A presence, an inclination; it’s comfier and smells nicer than his own… he’ll have to ask Kurt how he made that possible.

His eyes are the victim of something unkind when the passing thought reminds him he may in fact, not be able to.

***

He only goes to school because his mum insists that really, he should.

He would be happier with the arms of his friends surrounding him and their support drowning. That, in contradiction to kicking himself all day or lousing around, or to stress out within the walls of the hospital themselves. With a hug that was more than tight as he headed off, she also brought up the fact that she was simply a phone call away: if he really needed to be home, she’d pick him up in a heartbeat. But she wanted him to at least try.

When he pulls into the schools car park, he unintentionally parks only three spaces to the right of his brother’s navigator; he practically bounds towards it to assure the stance of it. A third lap around each and every angle leaves him impressed that it’s up to its shined, polished standard. That nothing has been broken, smashed, or painted in an anything but kind gesture.

It wouldn’t be the first time – and this is not including the momentary distaste of one Mercedes Jones.

He finally understands what it feels like to be his brother when he enters the school doors for the first time since… _it_.

People whisper, avoid his gaze completely, or stare at him like he’s going to erupt into particles of dust if he takes one step further; what it felt like to be the centre of attention in a rather daunting expedition. When a small, twig-like brunette from the freshman year approaches him at his locker (it takes six times for him to twist in the right combination), proposing help if he needed it, he finds himself at an even larger loss. His brother had a serious reputation in the school; everyone knew him be it in a loved or hated relationship. He hadn’t realised. He curses himself, because he  _should have_.

She trudges away in a quiet stance that reminds him of Tina in her ‘fake stutter days’. Actually, the more he thinks about it, he’s sure he can recognise her from long ago, even before Dalton, picking up one of Kurt’s books, passing it to him after it was shoved out of his hands by a passing jock. He decides he’ll need to thank her the next time he sees her.

Glee Club is awkward.

The moment he steps foot inside the taunted premises – despite it not being an actual class – countless eyes glance up at him as though he has brought a wavering, foul smell alongside him. Quinn approaches him, allowing slender fingertips to brush against his shoulder, before wrapping around the nape of his neck, pulling him into her shoulder blade with a gentle breath. He didn't expect them all to be here. They didn't have Glee for another four hours.

_“They’ll be here as soon as possible,” Quinn explains, a breath releasing from her shaken lips, the whisper of a dimpled smile when Puck takes hold of her phone and shoves it into his pocket; he knew what she needed. “We’ll just stay here,” the back of her hand brushes against Kurt’s cheek, “they’ve asked us to… to stay here. And be helpless,” the latter of the conversation embarks beneath a muttered breath, green hues willing glasz to return the contact._

He can’t remember how long they stand like that, because no one interrupts them, no one dares.

Will looks old, warn when he walks in, a pace to his footing that is just at snail’s length. They’ve all had the same idea, within high doubt that any teacher would seek them out and demand they return to the progressing classes.

Their identities were probably unknown by most – Finn grasps the understanding that each member made the choir room their first destination. Their teachers probably didn’t know they were here. The lesson is a blur, if you could even call it that. It wasn’t planned, and everyone sort of sidelines in their seats or goes to the bathroom every few minutes. Rachel decides to break the silence when she creates the idea they should compose a list of Kurt’s favourite songs and do a mash-up of a couple, or simply bring them to his wilting bedside. Finn is energetic about this. He jerks up at her idea, Quinn’s head bounding off his shoulder with a slight roll of the eyes. It would hardly help in physical tension, but at least it would keep them all distracted. For today, mind them.

The odd, strange day that seems to snail on and never allows one of them to break free from the silent compassions they have all endured.

As the afternoon strikes and departure is torn from the haunted school hallways, Brittany brushes a hand against his forearm, telling him that she would go to the hospital at closing times because then she’d be closed in and she could stay with Kurt all night. Under the belief that whoever was inside was not able to leave until the doors opened again that morning.

That slight edge of typical Brittany innocence landed him in a position that he’d missed; that he needed. So when he jumps into his car, just after texting his mother where he was heading, a littering smile is granted, the young blonde providing something that seems like he hasn’t endured for years. That is the thought, the moment that very much fuels him forth.

***

"Are you freaking kidding me? He, he said he was sorry! That he… he…”

Day number three; he’d begun to count.

School was slightly easing into his stomach, his family allowing a state of happiness he didn’t think he could feel. The presence lacking in the room was more than noticeable. It’s the same with his classes – he knows he’s not the only one with an empty seat in some periods, where he’d buddy up next to his brother.

“Honey, calm down, it’s going to be okay.”

“No! Mum, come on! And he what, tried to take the easy way out? Is that it?”

“ _Finn_.”

“Yeah, I know it sucks… I feel bad for his dad, I guess; but it’s his own fault. I’m not going to feel bad for _him_!”

School had seemed different as he left that afternoon; everyone now turned away from him, hurried out of his direction, like they knew something he didn’t. Like he was a fool not to know whatever the occurrence was – but it wasn’t as though anyone was lining up to fill him in, either. He couldn’t find any of his friends; their cars were gone without a simple goodbye.

It wasn’t until he arrived home, met with the solemn expressions of his mother and Burt- oh crap, Burt was there… surely he’d call him if, if… _that_...

He leaves the front door open as he enters, eyes wide, breath shot.

Carole more than understanding without needing him to question anything, assures him Kurt’s fine. In his state, at least. Burt was here, because he discovered first hand, literally, who’d put his son into a hospital bed. He was here to tell Finn, because he knows that should the boy find out under his own perception, because otherwise, there would be no chance of restraint. Of Finn being able to hold himself back.

That had been Carole's idea; to break the news to him rather than find out elsewhere, by a friend, and not know how to deal. Or better yet, find Kurt's attacker.

But now, things had formed into another level of hellish that was not deemed possible. And Blaine knew from the first moment of entrance, perhaps the first utterance of ‘hospital’ within the same sentence of Kurt’s own denomination.

Knew who it was – who put him into such an awful position. Everyone else had assumed, sure. Didn’t want to believe it… but what could they expect?

Burt sits him down, grips his hand in a fierce manner as the older woman offers a teary smile and a nod of the head. He releases it when Carole instead takes the physical stain against the skin, rubbing soothe circles with her thumb beneath his palm.

With a hushed breath, the name is dreaded, but expected in the air: _Karofsky_.

His dad found him, apparently.

Burt hadn’t gotten to hear all of the news, each syllable and pronunciation. Not when the hospitals security had to hold him, and calm his spitting words back against the new individual wheeled directly into the emergency room, and his father. Everything had just been confirmed.

While Blaine had stood red faced, palms against the back of his neck, fingers interlocked, elbows in the air. As though he couldn’t quite understand the moment, yet is produced only by the same rage Burt yields. Because he knew, he _knew_ it was him. It could only have ever _been_ him.

Staring helplessly at the thickly wrapped bandages around the bullies wrists, the blood on his father’s vest… and yet, not a lick of sorrow compasses either of them.

Or Tina: she was there, too. Though stood off to the side, paling.

Ready to endure, as Finn would later think and refer to it as the ‘easy way out’, and not take responsibility for his malevolent actions against the boy who’d done nothing to deserve it.

Azimio and Ryker had been involved, too, the latter a new student to the school, following the norms that accompanied the guys on the football team. Since then, both of the boy’s had come forward (only triggered by the grave attempt by Dave), whether it was guilt sustaining, or the belief they may get off easier if they admitted to their hand. They were the instigators – so it was highly unlikely.

They’d beaten him around the bush with a lacking prosperity, almost preparing him for Dave to enter the scene and take matters into his own hands. But again, Kurt would need to wake up, relive by explaining what had happened; the details were scratchy, unclear. Just something else Karofsky had taken away – the simple right to foretell a story.

Apparently when he'd entered the scene, it had been his attempt to help Kurt, to get the idiotic players off his fragile skin. But it had ended in the other two trying to get _Karofsky off him_. That it was a simple prank, and Dave lost his head right in the midst of it all. That it wasn't their fault.

Finn would only believe Kurt- without a single doubt. Let the other two say whatever they wanted. None of it formed a lick of truth yet.

“Wash the gay off? What the hell – is he –?”

Finn shrugs his mother’s comforting hand off, breaking their contact. If it were a cartoon, smoke would practically blare from his ears, successful in giving him a headache. Though he’s sure he already has that.

When Burt asks if Finn wants to take a break, grab a drink or even finish the conversation later, he declines, though continues to stand over the seated couple.

With a mumbled breath and continuing to briefly skim the events with just enough expression that he can understand them in a calmed manner; it was the only way to handle this.

Throughout all of this, though, the older brother in this moment considered that it was an act of the bully getting what he deserved. Feeling only what he is so sure that Kurt has experienced more than once – still with a sense of surety that Kurt was stronger than the attempt of unsaid ideologies.

But then again? He had more layers than an onion; nothing would shock Finn.

So at least he now possessed a fraction of what he’d put his brother through for years. Frankly, Finn couldn’t care less about Karofsky.

He should have finished the job on himself. Finn would do so on the other two goons, or anyone else who was involved in this; officially becoming his new (silent) reason of living.

***

It is the fifth day, _five days, what the hell_ , when Finn is sitting in Maths, without a lick of concentration in his brow, when his phone alarms the silence that possesses the class. Noah, beside him, shoves him on the arm with a furrowed glance when he doesn’t pick it up straight away and it continues to ring. With a snap back to the reality that shrouds, he messily fumbles in his pocket, half dazed and still caught up in the sleep he almost submitted to; he’s surprised to see Blaine’s contact reveal itself.

Any other situation would have resulted in the woman at the front of the class confiscating the device, maybe even setting a punishment for not having it on silent, but she, like everyone is aware. Aware of the circumstance, the revelations, she instead speaks out, requesting if he wished to take the call, to do so outside. Some of the students sit back in their chairs at this, propped against the table with their elbows forward and ears perked; almost like they too, were awaiting the fateful news that Finn held in his noisy hand.

That, or they would be able to provide the only taste of gossip that floated in the schools atmosphere.

Before he can even utter the beginning of his greeting, he is met with a jumble of words and a distortion that he doesn’t know if it’s the phone, or the boy on the line.

“ _Finn, Finn oh my – I had to call you I_ -” Oh no. His tone and stature and voice was too high and almost crazed – like something had happened. It could easily go from one extreme to the other in this circumstance. He was actually exactly like Kurt in that way: Finn never knew the difference between hysterics and excitement. He thought Kurt was happy, laughing when his sewing machine crumpled a new piece; thought he was drastically sobbing into the phone when he called him one afternoon. Turns out the call, when composed, Kurt explained Blaine had kissed him for the first time.

“ _He woke up, Finn – he for a second, only a_ second _and he looked at me and knew who I was and it was_ him _._ ”

Puck mouths a ‘ _what happened_ ’ and it’s only now does he realise he was followed out.

Finn leans against the wall with a limp in his back as Blaine continues to rumble useless repetitions of what’s happened, and really cannot seem to stop.

Puck jabs him with his finger, a flash of anger across his features as he now speaks the same words, and Finn can’t help but paint a look of confusion upon his own. Said in lesser formations and expressions, the rebellious teen did possess some sort of placement for the younger, even labelling him within the category of one of his ‘boys’ not too long ago. Finn shouldn’t have questioned it.

“He woke up,” he whispers as though worrying Blaine will hear him, shocked; at his naturalism, he stops when he hears a choke on the other line.

“You okay, man?”

“ _Just, hearing someone else say it. Burt isn’t even here – crap I should have called him first. I had two free periods. Finn, I gotta’ call Burt I just – see you later, okay?_ ”

And with that, as quick whence the call came, the line was deserted and Finn is left standing in the hall beside a smiling Puckerman. Silence ensures for a moment or two, before Finn utters a quiet “he woke up” and can’t remember when he more or less jumped into his friends arms with blurred eyes.

Things would be okay now. This was simply proof.

Later, when he tells (or tries to be the bearer of news but Puck gets there first) the rest of their tight knit group of the phone call received, it’s the way Rachel cries… watching her over the blonde flecks of the young woman who holds him close.

He knows he loves her, then.

With thanks (weird, horrid thanks) to this formality of an occurrence: he has decided he truly, utterly loves the girl on the far side of the room.

The brunette hugging Mercedes, rather than him. That’s who he loves.

***

When Blaine gets to the hospital on that fateful, fifth day, he is greeted to the sight of a persistent Carole, and if he strains – though occupies himself and appears distracted by signing in at reception – he can catch on to the floated words that manage to crawl into his senses.

Burt needing to go home, eat, get back into work, and when she sees Blaine pitches the sign that he is there, and would stay the rest of the day with his son. Besides the fact that he’s come in his uniform, using his free periods to travel rather than study. But he doesn’t refuse the practical invite to stay in the walls, and even though he knows Carole is aware he needs to go back to school, she doesn’t say anything.

Blaine totally gets it – emphasises with her. She was looking out for the man she loved; he was doing, or at least trying to do the same thing.

Carole eventually pries the man from the private room, brushing Kurt’s lifeless hair back with the palm of his hand, planting a timid kiss to the forehead – in careful consideration of the yellowing, marred bruises present.

“Hang in there, kiddo,” spills from his lips when his hand still lays against his shoulder and he breaks the connection against the cool skin below.

In departure, Burt appears that he is going to provide a warning in conversation, a typical ‘look out for him or else’ nonsense that is always presented in a world of fiction. He offers the minimum of “go home when you need to”, as he brushes past the doorway under the leading arm of his wife.

“Yes, sir.”

When the simplicity of the beeping, and the bopping of the seemingly loud machines break him from the trance that he had arrived upon, Blaine really breathes in the situation – his surroundings. Within the near week, this was the first time, literally the first that he has held the opportunity of a partnership with the boy… despite the other end met in sheer silence. Without the presence of another.

Shuffling off his blazer and stringing it neatly upon the chair beside the door, with a perched brow and a downtrodden spring in his step, he takes residence in the seat beside the bed. Warm from the permanent stature from the boy’s father – he feels guilty for replacing the figure. Selfish, because he wants the first thing Kurt to see when he wakes is his own hues blaring: confident, soft and supportive. Loving. As opposed to the man who raised him.

He knew it was wrong, knew it wasn’t how things were supposed to go (then again, none of this was), but still wanted it to happen. Needed it to happen.

 _Hey, I’m here, come on, notice me,_ he wines, gripping the hand that is practically frozen on position. 

 _Wake up and help me. You always know how to._  

Kurt fails to do so.

He tries to gain any sort of thoughts, any kind of intermission or assurances that he’s here for a reason. That he should listen to the confidences of Finn’s repetition, Kurt would be okay, he always is but can’t find it in himself to believe it when he’s just sitting there.

He considers that it’s karma – because Kurt longed for him helplessly, dramatically for so long before Blaine managed to catch on, to see him in the way Kurt so desperately wanted him to. That it’s the earth, or whoever punishing him for that. But Kurt didn’t believe in such stimulations or spiritual means; so for this moment, he too decides against it.

Within the passing hours, getting a cramp and needing to adjust his seating every so often – he’s grateful there is a bathroom only a few steps away, so he doesn’t need to leave for too long a period. Otherwise he would simply hold on.

He finds himself singing a lot amongst the passing day, not loud belting notes of an attention seeking notion. Simple hums, some wordless and so quiet that no one would hear even upon a strain of attention. Without even realising it, he’s fixing the sheets because it’s hot outside and the last thing Kurt needs to do is suffer from heat alongside everything else. And he’s tenderly, softly, cautiously brushing a fingertip along the scarring cut against the bottom of his lip, the concluding note of ‘Blackbird’ ironically floating within the air as his skin breaks contact.

Eyes adjusting and moving from the seemingly simple line of embedded crimson, they hesitantly fall upon the attention seeking purple that holds dangerous increments against the closed lids. Only now, they’re not, and in the dark hospital lighting he barely manages to make out the dim blue.

Initially believing it was wishful thinking; it wasn’t the first time he’d seen this happen.

But the whispering squeeze against his fingers was as real as it got. He’d imagined this too, sure, but could not conjure the imagination to really grasp the tiny details that was being offered now. The way Kurt's longest nail bites like the tooth of a tiny kitten into his skin, how it brushes into a centred position of Blaine’s hand like he’s trying to gain a better hold.

Because he knows that it’s Blaine’s hand he’s holding.

When this realisation slowly draws into a reality, the chair behind him comes to a crumbling fall, and he’s _screaming_ out to the nurses as he places both hands around Kurt’s numbly resurrecting right. But he doesn’t care about any of that, his appearance or need to be in the room despite two nurses pushing him away.

“Kurt?”

There is no response – the older boy (though looks far younger with thanks to the result of devils work, small and uncomfortable) watching him like a hawk beneath barely open lids. An unfocused hawk who is hyped on many drugs in the system. But no, Blaine had to correct himself, the brunette was instead like a wounded animal locked, stranded. How someone could reduce Kurt Hummel, the prideful, perfect man into this vessel – touched and bruised – Blaine couldn’t comprehend.

But it doesn’t matter; they would cope. It also doesn’t matter when he awkwardly fumbles for his phone because what he needs to do, really needs to do, is call Finn. Who has been so grey and down and guilty for the past week – he deserved to know. He would call him, he needed to.

But none of that really mattered either, because everyone would find out. Because Kurt was awake.

Blaine lets the blood pump through himself once again, and a seemingly barred smile to grace against his features. He was awake. And God forbid (right, not God – not the delicacy of Kurt’s cup of tea) Blaine let him go again.


	3. Chapter 3

Like every day since middle school, he should have gone the long way around. But apparently when he’d approached complacency he’d waved goodbye to common sense. The very common sense that may have earned an hour each week of wasted time, but saved him from a successful mound of unwanted attention.

Finn had told him that, Puck confirmed it. To head around the West corridor, make his way out through the gym, use the door to the far left, thus giving him the final destination of the way to the carpark to make his way home. Untouched.

He’d only began committing to this due to Finn’s continued requests he do so.

When Finn had looked down at him with such raw emotion ridden in his irises and an ovation of thunder within his heart he knew he couldn’t decline the boy of this.

_Blood glided down his brow, curling caked edges, tangling exposed skin. Clotted just enough to drip against his blazer, though not enough to make a real mess. Bone peeked above the joint of his wrist, the result of a supported, instructed, though poorly shaped punch in defence. A punch seen coming from a mile away, evidently stopped, pulsated, retreated. The banished cry of stubborn pride finally expelled; unable to be held back._

_He noticed his own pallor; paler than usual, bloodless. As if the collective trio were a gathering of thirsty vampires, bent over him, waiting expectantly for exsanguination…_

He’d remembered everything so vividly, and yet without a taste of true memory. Like he was watching it on television, with Finn beside him to commentate or question if it were a programme Kurt chose (the same if it were the reversed system).

Sometimes he’d entertain the thought that he could see with his hands. With his ears, his physical acknowledgements. But mainly his hands. While scathed with thanks to the halls of McKinley High, a great deal of the time situations would be perceived with the brushing of fingertips, the clasp of a palm.

The bland, boring lucent visions of the halls to the meaty, unattractive features of those who resided. Where, his hands could offer what his hues could not. Tender touches, a locker combination becoming a legacy; rough becoming smooth. Not fooled by the horrendous environments that so often surrounds and possesses, the opposing skin that grants the fabrication of courage lit within his core.

He didn’t need to see anything, not really.

Not with the grand expedition of a lingering touch upon his skin, from the boy who travelled so far, yet existed so close. Blaine’s shadowing essence forever imprinted.

Well, once it did… in the late impending June. Horrifyingly twisting into July for all involved. 

_“It’s your fault.”_

_Through tears and snot and heavy breaths. An uncontrollable urge, the only urge that has sustained confused expressions and undecided attachments._

_“It’s.”_

_Muscle crushed, oxygen eludes._

_“Fucking.”_

_A pancake mess of organs, a crumble of skin and bones._

_“Your-”_

_“Jesus, man! You’re gonna kill him!”_

It’s like being born again- not that he remembers the first time, obviously. Hell, passing memories of his own mother fade within the days, and no matter the photographs or her everlasting scent that he holds onto, he knows one day she will become more a dream than a reality.

He saw her. Felt her. Initially, she reached out to him, desperate for his company in whatever the place she befell. Kurt would always regret declining her hand.

But he needed to talk to Finn, and his dad, and Blaine because his mind is fuzzy with a strange haze that offers a surrounding darkness and pitched, decided memories. Pin pointed against the rest – he doesn’t know what’s happened, nor the haunting exclamations resting within. 

It’s mainly a blur, with strangers prompting him physically and emotionally; draining and curious: he doesn’t remember. They expect him to, prod and poke, remind him of this _thing_ that’s happened – seeking a response. He doesn't remember. 

_Ego broken; he didn’t think that it could be shot anymore within the environment that has relentlessly tortured him. Pride envisioned only through a longing mannerism – he shouldn’t be surprised when he isn’t even granted that much. The one thing he could assure, hold onto with such might and wit that it was the only ideology justly proving worth. Adrenaline something of all angles, sustaining his bones and lighting him with something he believes never understood before._

_It was a different sort of adrenaline: when Blaine kissed him in the shadowed norms of Dalton’s zero tolerance walls (unaware, even throughout all this, if he wishes he hadn’t departed the school). Freedom and release had laced him in that moment._

_Disorientation pursues; Finn had always questioned him between the differences regarding his excited punctures and perplexity, rather than the disappointed, bubbly crying when something terrible has happened and Kurt just can't get out the words. But he knew, coming out of this, he would be more than readable._

“Is the car okay? I didn’t… I didn’t hurt anyone, did I?”

He hears the release of a concealed breath from just a few feet away, as he’s directing the question at Blaine. There’s a humourless laugh, an act of support as that touch remains soothing against the top of his unhurt hand.

“No, you didn’t, Kurt. You _couldn’t_.”

The young nurse with eyes bright and focused assures him that his father has been contacted, that he would be there in the following minutes if not sooner. A sense of approved pride sinks into him at the note that Burt wasn’t by his side; it gave an (undoubtedly small, but still evident) indication that he had not been completely hung over his bedside. Kurt knows this isn’t true as no more than a few months prior the roles were reversed, and he was sitting where Blaine was, eyes grey and disconnected, back struck out. Sense of relief marred instead with a rumbling caution. _Oh God, if dad isn't here, where is he? What's he like?_

The nurses fiddle around him, and he answers their questions dryly, focus so clearly elsewhere. And it’s not a case of ‘he’s so tired, he needs sleep, let him rest’, but was so fixated, so incredibly drawn to the young boy twitching in the corner of the room. Anxiety pulsates throughout them both, desperate to reach out to just hold one another; Kurt was too tired to make the first move. Blaine had been shuffled into the corner of the room when the IV was being checked, blood pressure tested, hand adjusted. Everything that shouldn't have been happening, topped with a cherry that Blaine had to retreat. 

Blaine eventually discards the nurse, with focused eyes and a pounded perception, he hastily pounces forth (with the grace of a lion though desperation of a desiring boyfriend) and places a gentle, loving hand amongst his forearm.

When the Doctor, Spencer, she'd introduced herself as, but told him just to call her Kate, walked into the room and issued the fiddling young nurses out, an annoyed breath of air excels her lips but she continues anyway. Blaine drags the chair beneath the window with his left foot and ankle when the woman instructs him to do so, simply because she’d assumed he wouldn’t be leaving.

More than rightly so, as there isn’t anywhere else he would prefer, would _rather_ be.

Well, really, there lie a great pathway of options, of decisions and desires that Blaine would hold a favour towards – anywhere but here. Nonetheless, with a strained conscious and an arc that is momentarily kept to himself (stress was not needed to apply to the airs atmosphere) a wilting brink of exclamation is kept behind closed lips.

Soon enough, lacking the sadness and feats of fury that had clouded the ageing features of Burt Hummel’s face came to its unpredicted end; hastily interrupting Kate’s soft explanations and gentle prods on diagnosis and remembrance – Kurt can’t recall when she left the room. His tiredness questions whether she was even there in the first place.

“I didn’t hurt anyone did I?”

Instead he directs the previous question, the one that had been instead answered with a form of gentle praise, suddenly worried in the tight hold that Burt smothers him within. He watches as his father takes a step back, a grim, though relieved smile drawn tightly, and proceeds to provide him only with a more worrying response, “no, Kurt, but we’ll talk about it later, m’kay?”

He looks to Blaine, squinting, trying to uncover something, then returns the gaze to his father. “I’m worried now, dad, what happened?”

There is a moment of hesitation, and Kurt feels his heart drop to his feet. 

“You got beat up, Kurt.”

The words are so simple, said without a breath though with a venomous taste twisted within them. He doesn’t look at him when he says it, either, and it’s now that the unsettling dawn becomes known. Burt really hadn’t been coping, and Kurt hates that more than this whole wired situation.

“Oh,” is all he comments quietly, vague, hazed memories striking in and out from his suddenly conflicting mindset. He knew, they all did, but he produced the question softly, wobbly, not relying on the fuzzy product that his conscious grants. “…Who beat me up?”

“That Karosfky kid.”

“I guess they’ll have to expel him this time.” Nodding, Kurt responds, suddenly feeling awkward; awkward and exposed. And like an _idiot_ because he’d tried so hard.

***

When, two hours later, the doctor returns with two at her side, watching and gazing the medical properties that surround Kurt’s bed ridden figure, it’s a true concern when simple questions (what is your name, your father’s name, the year) become such extravagant details, yet the one of importance is answered wrong.

Initially, frustrated and tired, Kurt offered the doctor read his charts because ‘you _are_ holding them’, but timid sigh to his left, accompanied by the soft words of ‘just answer the questions, son’, did he comply.

“July, the third.”

Spencer looks from her chart in the revelation of his words, a gentle, compassionate _‘hm’_ barely audible from the tip of her tongue. And this is when Kurt decides to officially freak out – just a little in the crook of his view.

“It’s the eighth.” Burt responds instead, slightly dismayed; loose arms folding across his chest as though steadying himself.

“Right, because on the third, Blaine and I went to sing-a-long Beauty and The Beast. We… we had dinner at that little café down from the cinema because we are both _so over_ Breadstix.”

Tone panicked, lucky he had practise in concealing any emotions that could outburst and be regretted moments later – he’d learnt that the hard way. Like apparently, everything else.

“We’ll have to run a few more tests, Kurt, just to make sure everything is in order, and that we haven’t missed out on anything. We’ll keep you here another night, just for observation and-”

“It was one date.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“One tiny, insignificant date that _anyone_ could have messed up given the circumstances. It’s not exactly rocket science, the reasoning I could give you for not remembering every tiny detail-”

“Kurt, that’s enough,” Burt finally speaks, breaking his son’s rant that could quite possibly have trailed on for the rest of the evening. Spencer continues to explain (in a far more apologetic tone, now, it could almost be mistaken for condescending) that there wouldn’t be too many tests, more a simple observation to capture any strange behaviour or symptoms. There is a glance, vulnerable and feverish as Kurt looks up to his father with a gaze so similar to his mothers.

He’d always hated hospitals – no two ways about it. Because hospitals was where the uniforms don’t match, and the scrubs are so very unappealing to the eye that it was practically a crime what these doctors pranced around in. Because hospitals were where he had to watch his mother die and then worry that the exact same thing was to happen to his dad.

***

_When he heard it, the low, almost silent sound of running feet, he acted quickly. It was angelic hymns to his ears, the sound of salvation - a sign that his quest was not over, and God gave him permission to trek on. The thought of it being an illusion did not cross his mind. He allowed himself to then, and only then, rest against his better judgement._

_Despite the shivering frame assisting the overall tune of a thirst for strength – though he cannot reach it like he has so many times in the past, a wavering touch of something different clouds him. A crash to the floor (a phone perhaps) and he knows escape is due. Even if he can’t provide it to himself._

He’s sure it’s night when he wakes up next, which is odd, as through the faint slit in his closed eyelids, a familiar tone embarks, and it’s not one that he expected at (he turns his head gently to the side to gaze at the digital clock) nine twenty-one.

“That had better not be something obscene, Puckerman,” his throat is dry and croaked, mouth without water; he licks his lips to gain some moisture. “But again, I would hardly expect any less from you.”

He almost considers the entire ordeal completely, and utterly worth it, when the mohawked teen drops the sharpie on the ground, jumping onto his feet rather than resting a leg against the side of the bed, partly raised. Catching a quick glance to his shielded, casted hand _it had to be my right_ , before focusing with dazed hues upon the boy before him.

Well, this was officially weird.

Unlike his usual, typical boyish demeanour that is so distastefully infuriating upon the most occasions, Noah instead presents a sudden slump in his shoulders, an awkward mound to follow through. When the silent air only continues, he decides to break it, slowly, carefully, like approaching a wild animal.

“Would you mind passing me that?”

Noah complies too quickly, and it only upturns his nose to scrunch, his eyes to furrow, what _the hell_ was going on? He even unscrews the lid of the bottle of water before passing it down to him, “how are you feeling?” he questions softly, eyes strained and breath almost stilled. Kurt doesn’t take it straight away, hardly wanting to add ‘choking to death’ on his ever running list of problems. He could see it now, _‘high school boy beaten into a coma, dies not from injury but idiocy as he takes a drink on his back, and as you guessed it: choked.’_

His ever timid grunt when twisting to prop up the pillows behind him, and sit up for what was practically the first time in a week, only seems to make the other want to leave even more. “Wonderful, as I’m sure you can imagine,” he responds in the mists of his actions, taking the drink from Puck’s inelegantly outstretched hand. The trickle down his throat like a breath of fresh air, slightly uncomfortable behind the clogged endurance. Purposely, Kurt is slow, glasz hues cornered as he watches the other boy – waiting for something.

It doesn’t come.

Before he can make the first move, the door is opened and sandwiches are almost lost to the ground. Like a giant, uncoordinated, hardly insightful, Finn bounds over to the bed, sloppily placing two plastic wrapped sandwiches on the table.

“Oh man, I’m so glad you’re up!”

He feels suddenly tired; gracing Finn’s presence could be a wearing subject. He rattles on about how both the times (straight after school, and when Blaine left) Kurt had been asleep, and that while he was tempted to try and wake him up, even he knew it wasn’t right to do so.

“Hold on, I’ll go and grab you one,” a quick head tilt to the newly introduced food, “didn’t think you’d be up!”

“He can have mine, Finn, I was just leaving anyway,” Puck mentions, tone slightly more comfortable, normal than the strange interaction debriefed only seconds prior. Offering a smile, but no more speech, he departs the room, leaving only the brothers in the dull air.

“Where’s dad?”

As Finn replaces Puck’s chair, and starts chewing through his sandwich, the other is offered to Kurt though he simply shakes his head. “He went home about ten minutes ago? Mum finally convinced him,” a laugh, “it wasn’t easy – didn’t know Burt was as stubborn as you. I can text him if you want? Call him down?”

“No- no that’s okay. Thanks though, Finn.”

He notices, throughout their small chat, the aftermath of Finn’s initial excitement had transformed into something not unlike the conversation (if it could even be called that) foreseen with Puck, before Finn took a grateful entrance.

That Finn had barely offered a glance towards his face, gaining real eye contact. Deep within admittance, as overbearing as the elder could be: a simmer of disappointment surges over the fact that he hadn’t been enveloped in those massive arms of his and have to struggle for breath.

“What’s wrong?”

Kurt finally addresses it, in the mid-sentence of Finn explaining that Blaine was staying at their house, but wasn’t sure if he would go back tonight or not. _‘Probably not, because ya know, it’s a long drive and he just wants to be here. I like him,’_ he’d said in such a sweet way, like he was approving his choice of partnership; like it really mattered whether he liked the boyfriend or not.

In a furrowed glance, Finn wears that signature look, like he’s trying to work out the answer before asking what it is. “What-? Nothing, I’m just glad you’re up, Kurt. Like we can talk about something else if you want?”

“No, there _is_ something wrong. With Puck too – I think I have a right to know exactly what’s going on.” A raised brow, he absently picks at the scab on his left knee from under the knitted blanket. What he didn’t expect, however, was the almost defeated sigh that breaks the moment of silence, a sudden thump in Kurt’s chest as he doesn’t know what he’s walking into.

“You know… we would have never done this. Like, before Glee, and before we realised, you’re like, really kinda cool, even though I never know what you’re gonna say and half the time I can’t understand what it _is_ you’re saying –”

“English please, Finn.”

“Me and Puck, and Mike, even though he wasn’t really as mean or anything – we never would have…” he issues the bed, “beaten you up like… like this.”

“What?” genuinely not understanding the insight towards all of this; was it guilt they were feeling? If this was a year ago Kurt would have rolled in such satisfaction. Instead, he gently prompts his brother to continue – not quite what he was expecting, but intriguing nevertheless.

“We never wanted to… like—we never wanted this to happen to you. Back before Glee, we were the ones throwing you in the dumpster and the fact that _me_ , the guy who’s supposed to be your brother, made you feel like—”

“Exactly – there’s a big difference between you and Karofsky, Finn. Even Puck… _hey_ ,” the last note added sharply as Finn’s brows are suddenly slumped, head dipped ever so shamefully. He glances up at the tone, and Kurt feels a sense of relief after a brief smile rises up with a peek. “You never made me feel unsafe, Finn, not _you_.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Finn, please, don’t insult me. You are doing a fine job of dosing your guilt, but it’s just making me feel depressed and I really don’t need that, and neither do you.”

He offers a gentle grin, “you’re a good brother, Finn – you’re going to be a good man, too.” Like weights have been lifted, Kurt would once have done anything to be in such a position with Finn Hudson, the boy he’d pined so helplessly over for a now, embarrassingly period of time. This was better, Kurt had decided months ago with an instance of his Dalton days. Spending the first few weekends at the school, settling into the dorms rather than bothering with the drive, it was the easiest way to attack this plan of great change. The third week in consisting of a message from his brother where he'd asked if he could spend the Friday night with him just to hang out. Horrid rain had instead distributed thus destroying well-organised plans.

Kurt told him to stay home, not risk driving the conditions, that he would come home throughout the week. Three hours after the phone call that Friday night, cancelling said plans, a shaken, frigid Finn was instead found at the door of Kurt’s dorm.

_“You complete, idiotic oaf; I can’t believe you came here! In these conditions? You absolute – I can’t – Finn Hudson you are going to be the death of me. Get in, come inside before you do anything else ridiculously absurd.”_

_“G-good to see… to see you too, bro.”_

_“Shut up. Just. I can’t believe you came here.”_

Almost the unimaginable occupation, facing something together in upmost partnership. It was an oddity, something never to be expected – and yet here it was. Such great expectations in what the schools provided, the very stereotypes that shaped an individual into adulthood.

But that was before Glee Club, and everything either of them knew was twisted on its back and shoved to the side, like a stranded turtle trying to find its legs again. Trying to find its way, something that can seem so unmanageable and downright impossible at the time which the turtle is on its crackling shell. Gaining life upon the grains of sand, and sinking out into the ocean was to be the final step, a struggle and packed with uncertainty, but the goal was reached. Some who doubted, many who wanted to pick up the turtle and turn him upright; the easy way out. Not unlike Glee, where some were forced into it, others slow and struggling to figure out if it's where they really wanted to be.

Everyone had found their home, a family. Only it turned into the literal sense for the unlikely duo.

“Go on, put something on the television or tell me what’s been going on before you stare so hard that you break something.”

***

“Thank you for sparing me the horrid truth.”

He’s taken aback by the sudden initiation of conversation, but more so what truth hides behind the outspoken express. The words, their very structure could implement a great tale of raw emotions, of a conversation best not dwelled upon. Blaine’s mouth opens, closes, and repeats four times, before finally picking the successful way to get his own question across.

“What do you mean, Kurt?” The request is almost stuttered; afraid of the answer, where it could come from in the great array of outcomes and personalities. But when it comes, a laugh emits from the bottom of his throat, and he praises the heavens above that this hasn’t destroyed Kurt.

“I’ve been sitting here, lazy and helpless for a week now- I know what I must look like.”

“You look amazing Kurt, as you always do.”

A scoff follows, clearly in complete and utter disbelief through two differing formalities; the clear cut lie that expelled the air, alongside the simple form that Blaine never failed to surprise him. To provide that feeling in the pit of his core that no one else could offer.

“You don’t have a mirror, do you?”

Vanity seemed so unimportant after someone left him to die on the gruesome floors of the boy’s locker room, but he couldn’t help it.

“What? On me? I’m not you, Kurt. Did you want me to help you to the bathroom?”

He shouldn’t be surprised when the older boy declines, perhaps the first time ever listened and obeyed to clear and unquestionable instructions. Blaine had been there when they were issued – but he’d never really left, either.

_“You’re not going to want to hear this, Kurt, but you need to stay bedridden. I know you’d much prefer your own, but it should only be for a few more days while your results come in and we can discuss the best way to go about this. For now, you need to keep rested, and call for help if you need to get up – which you can only do in the upmost of emergencies.”_

“I could run down to the little drug store at the end of the road if you wanted one, I think they sell pocket mirrors.”

It’s only due to the way that his eyes light, and that smile curls into gentle dimples in the side of his cheeks does Blaine pick himself up in initiation of travel. Willing, without question to retrieve the seemingly meaningless item, he can’t help the shaped emotion that grew as quickly as it came: he didn’t want to leave. Growing accustomed to the everlasting company, it would be like a cut tie to pick up and leave, now.

It would only be a few minutes, however, and it’s this ideology that pushes him through. A carefully produced kiss on the cheek, and he’s out the door, lingering momentarily in case he’s called back again. He isn’t – and Blaine isn’t sure whether to count it as development for Kurt or sadness for himself.

That anger-pilot behind his eyes is all automatic, all responsive and _aware_ even now, as light steps take him to the elevator at the end of the hall. Hovering for more than anticipated, locked in his own world and being, Blaine’s index finger touches the first button upon the wall; the little arrow indicating ‘up’ is completely consuming that he wants only to activate it.

He wanted to take one of those scalpels he’d caught only a second glance at in the hands of a surgeon, and shove it right into the throat of the kid who rested on that upper floor. A simple floor above, probably living it up in the comfort and providing foods with an array of excuses as to why he was here, why Kurt was there, and why he’d probably return to school in a few days still followed by his bunch of brainless friends.

In complete reality he knows this is the furthest from the truth, but as a shaking finger reaches the lower button, and that delicacy becomes a fisted punch upon the wall to open the elevator doors; nothing else can satisfy him. Nothing else will.

Because he shouldn’t need to run down to the crappiest part of the streets to get his boyfriend an item caused and shamed by the malevolence of another.

No such rage has ever pulsated his head before, even in unknown company as the elevator lets out its timid ‘ding’ to close the doors and he’s one amongst three in the tight premises, his frustrated, loud tapping against the wall beside shall not cease. When the head of a short, elderly woman turns behind to grab a quick glance of the commotion in the silence, it only continues.

He doesn’t know when that rhythm of anger shall ever lose its existence. He knew what it was like to be in walls very much like these, to understand that helplessness and sheer anger that _this is what the world does to those who are different_ – but it is so much worse to gaze over it onto someone else. Someone he loved more than himself, more than anyone through every inch of possibility.

***

“This should help with any headache, my dad’s had to go out and buy it for the next door neighbours to ease the so-called pain of my ear piercing expressions. Really, they should have been appreciative to be living so close to the future Broadway star in which I am, but I guess some people just don’t understand the true nature of stardom. This should also-”

“Can I have one of those now, please?”

Eyes slightly squinted back, but a friendly, accustomed smile tuning into the corner of his lips, faint but so evident. To grand surprise the immediate offence that would usually pursuit from her end fails to come, instead a rather graceful mannerism occurs as she sets the small box of tablets onto the desk (finding room between the flowers, the gift shop teddies, and even sheet music) and stands above him.

“How are you feeling, Kurt?”

Wishing she could take them back in the seconds of release, as the faint roll of his eyes and the slump of his shoulders indicates nothing but expectation, of annoyance due to the repeated nature.

“Once I can get home, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“Do you know when…?”

“Tomorrow,” he responds flatly, quickly, so clearly counting down the minutes in which the clock hits the following day and he can leave the premises. A slight raise of the brow as a silence commences, Kurt catches onto her movements and stillness quickly, moving slowly on the bed, cornering himself into the opposite end. When enough room is provided, the tiny girl hops up delicately, to not disturb him nor the array upon the desk, even kicking off her shoes in the process.

“Tomorrow, and things can go back to normal.”

Her eyes perch up at these words, joining her tan fingers into his pale lengths, a gentle squeeze emitting as she does. “Is that really what you think?” It’s not asked to condescend or to change his considering heart, but a genuine outlook into his thought process at this point in time; it wasn’t something that could be understood, or even guessed upon a glance to the boy.

“It’s not a big deal, Rachel, please don’t be like Blaine, or my dad, or even _Finn_ and feel the need to coddle me like I’m dying or something. I’m not.”

The final two words are emitted in a way that are so forced it appears he is trying to convince himself, to mould it so hardly into his head that it becomes the plain truth. Bruises fade, elements heal – some later than others and with larger proportions and complications, but it happened despite said issues. The sheer horror of mankind and their actions were a different story, but Kurt had always known this, so his surprise was hardly something forthcoming.

“Did you want to talk about it? Do you remember it?”

She’s the only one who has directed the question so suddenly towards him, not sugar coated it in a way to pry or to get him to open up without even himself realising. An array of _‘I’m here for you’_ or _‘let me know if you need anything’_ coming from his loved ones, intended only to provide the opportunity should he want to reach out – it wore thin rather quickly.

The latter strikes an invisible cord all quickly; Kurt doesn’t realise the pulsating grip he suddenly embarks onto their still clasped hands. Rachel either fails to notice, or kindly restricts herself to state it aloud… without speaking it himself, Kurt is well aware of the accuracy between the two options. Remembering (he wishes he didn’t) with a great conscious and a flying taste of rebellion remaining in his brow, from the restriction to the immediate interlock.

“I don’t know if I would prefer to lose the better part of a week, or remember everything that happened.”

When a silence follows, and Rachel has given him enough time to continue on if he wished to, she decides to break the not-so-awkward pause, “what _do_ you remember?” Issued softly, though with such force she didn’t believe could be conjured towards him. Rachel hoped deep within herself that yes he had Blaine now, and the bond with his dad was one like no other, he would come to her; she _wanted_ him to. Perhaps the most unselfish thing she’s ever felt.

A connection undoubtedly coursing between one another within the previous months (silent devastation upon his transfer, _how come you were never this nice to me when I was your teammate? Because you were my only real competition!_ ) ever since she’d directed herself intentionally in his path, offered more than the New Directions ever could to him. Once again issuing the fact that she had been so completely generous – the only one who noticed something was going down. Or at least, the only one who did something about it.

“I remember them running, like the cowards they have always been known to be.”

There is a bitter taste in the tune of his words, an archetype of riddled emotions, something she can’t decipher no matter the depth of which she is currently trying. Their hands intertwined in one base, gentle, soothing.

“It’s not quite there, like I’m watching something on television. Trying to figure it out: not unlike having a conversation with Finn, when he’s playing Call of Duty.” A smile breaks her thin features, “or you, when you’re so contempt upon something and you ramble like a cat on steroids.”

“Blaine told me that you were struggling? With your memory?”

He laughs, thick in his throat, expectantly.

“Of _course_ he did.”

“He’s just worried, Kurt.” She offers tenderly.

“Yeah, well, you’ll find that waking up after four days will make you a little confused.”

Kurt continues with extreme hesitance, but an easing extraction to his voice. Lacking in detail, Rachel becomes softly aware that Kurt remembers the event like the hairs on his arm, but the week beforehand, his experiences, and feelings are more or less absent. Consumed with what happened, and how it happened… lacking only with the _why_.

“Where is he?”

Even in the stillness of the private room, she had only heard his embarking question due to the closeness of their bodies, an unconscious squeeze of his hand, cornering his gaze onto her completely. “It’s up to you, we all… we all _assumed_ , but nothing could be set in stone without you telling us… telling the police. If that’s what you wanted to do…?”

Hardly known for one with a talent of lying, _of course_ she knew where he was, they all did. She merely stood in line of sheer anger that he was physically so close to her friend. Not, however in the group that wished to push past the cop guarding the room and drive something through the head of the former bully turned attempted murderer.

“I-” the dream was dead, afloat many of which the halls of McKinley High took hostage and had the ability to break a student apart. He’d been so set, genuinely _happy_ that a slither of acceptance was to possess the boy of great conflict, a new chapter of the bulky book they had both taken part on. Regret instead succumbing, a shaken core – he thinks this may have been worse.

 _“He deserves_ prison _not fucking Suicide Watch,” Noah had exclaimed, perhaps with such rage that she has never seen before. “And why the hell is his dad keeping this from him? Hell- I’ll go and tell him, and it’ll-”_

_“Noah you can’t. It’s sweet that you want to defend Kurt, but he needs more than just your fists right now.”_

It was the last thing Kurt needed to hear, as his dad could ease him into just what had happened in his almost week away. Confliction in her belly; if it were her, she is sure she’d want to know everything upfront, have it all laid on and work through it within her own time. Although she wasn’t one to defy the take and stance of a parent with regards to their child – it was up to Burt and how he wished to go about this.

When there is no response to her drifting question, she takes a quick whiff of his features under the momentary impression he may have taken to a nap. Instead, blank eyes stare at the door, deceased inside and without that usual quirk that he so masterfully poses.

“So, Kurt, do you think lilac would go well with my new sundress and high boots?”

Horror embarks within his distracted mind, a raised brow as he glances again at the cute dress fitting her figure, to the knee and with strappy sleeves, yellow with a tinge of orange. Yet to see the shoes in which she spoke of, he responds and shakes his head empathetically. “No. Just no.”

It didn’t take a genius to figure out what she was doing, and even in his cut gaze only seconds prior, he was thankful for the distraction. That she’s using the masterful inability to coordinate an outfit to his benefit and it’s working. The wave of gratitude which suddenly takes reign and washes over him is immense in every sense of its being.

She isn’t pushing to know anything, to get into his mind and pick it apart – he’d expected that to be so intense from her, truthfully. He wonders when she had become so good at reading his needs.

It becomes a well-known and familiar routine, completely comforting. Hands of the clock seeming to take a rush of adrenaline as the day passes in gentle banter and quiet conversation regarding the normal things of life. Her clothes (Kurt successfully suggesting a whole weeks of outfits, which she promised to bring them to his house tomorrow and test them in the flesh), Glee Club, casual gossip of the town and how excited he was to be in his own bed.

He wonders the moment that she had become such a friend, unexpected to say the least. Though it was her reading him earlier in the year, in a different outcome but that same tone of familiarity and comfort that Kurt knew he’d found something in her. Beyond the narcissism in performing and the compulsion to be right, she was certainly something.

***

Grey sweatpants were hardly the forte or first choice for himself, but after his dad told Finn not to go home and retrieve Kurt’s ‘get the hell out of here’ outfit like he’d kindly requested – he was forced to settle for his less fashionable ‘sick and missing school’ ensemble. Though he would never admit aloud the comfortability of his current situation, added with silent praise to Mr. Schuester’s week of his students rolling around in wheelchairs. At least the practise seeped in… somewhat.

The hospital worried that if he walked and tripped over his own feet, or used the crutches he suggested, he would sue in the blink of an eye. Begrudgingly taking up the not-quite option of using a wheelchair, upon the handles Blaine stands, slowly, and without eagerness pushing him down the bland corridors of the hospital he was more than happy to depart. A gentle conversation between the two that Finn barely overhears (and is unaware if he even _wants_ to hear what they’re talking about) as he walks a few feet behind them, a few papers and little round bottles in his hands.

Burt gone up ahead in order to sort out the smoothest option of getting out and going home. Quickly, without fuss, so that when Kurt got to the door he could simply wheel himself out – the last thing any of them needed was another reason to be agitated.

“You’re not ninety years old, Blaine. You can push me a little faster.”

A physical sigh excels the younger boy’s lips, clear frustration, a moment of cautiousness, and Kurt feels a slight push upon his back, pace quickening. A grin, small and almost unseen upon his thin features, though a complete sign of comfort. Hardly lasting, however…

In the dim hallway, the shadows of death and an overall compulsion of a stench that followed the patients that have been there for an unthinkable amount of time. A shadow of something far more sinister, said without intention and in a mound of complete innocence but a stain of obliviousness. Unawareness.

The gentle rumble of the elevator holding Blaine, Finn and Kurt and taking them to the lowest level of the building comes to a stop, a forced sigh exiting the seated boy; frustration without concern. He just wanted to _get out_.

“Dude, chill, we’ll be home soon,” the older brother says with a simmering laugh, waiting for a response, even turning his head down to glance at Kurt. Nothing comes, and Finn can’t shake the slightly humourful stain settling in, catching on to the true desperation Kurt is feeling. Right now, his bed didn’t seem so bad, either.

The 'ding' that sounds, triggering the door opened for a stranger to take the few stories down to the ground floor is loud in the enclosed space… though the occupation of ‘stranger’ stands correct for only two of the three individuals inside.

“Paul?”

The voice is tiny, a whisper in comparison even to the outburst of physical annoyance only seconds prior. Finn doesn’t even hear it, but Blaine does, and unconsciously grips the back of the chair with an inch more force. After the past week, it would take him a while to rid the extreme protective behaviour that has suddenly nestled into his conscious and simply become part of his functioning.

It then clicks, for Finn. He remembers slowly, it dawns on him, crashing and repetitive.

_‘Just keep an eye on your brother.’_

_‘One step ahead of you.’_

“Uh, man, maybe you should-”

Kurt couldn’t find out like this, _not_ like this.

“Why are you here?”

Lost in a trance, “to see my son- I am so, very sorry as to his actions, my responsibility in this circumstance-”

“ _What?_ He’s- _what?_ Blaine? I-”

Finn, slowly, in the terms of gentleness but fast moving in his pace, presses his hand to the older man’s chest as he departs the doors in perhaps the most mature movement he has ever revealed. A quiet conversation and Kurt wants to get up and intervene to know what the _hell_ was happening, but the slit is closed, Finn and Paul becoming a mere echo in the thrumming heart of his own.

He wanted to turn and run for the end of the hall, better yet to his house – he would do it. Storm his bedroom door closed and latch a thumb-bolt _just_ to be able to keep the world out that little bit further. Glaring up to his boyfriend, straightening up, head rummaging in a semi-circle of agitation and sudden claustrophobia of the enclosed space. _Thanks Finn, Puck,_ he thinks bitterly gnawing on his lip with such pressure it releases a trickle of blood, _bet you never knew throwing me in dumpsters all those years gave me a disliking to enclosed spaces._

This was happening too quickly.

***

Silence evokes in the most awkward way possible between father and son on the drive home. And the brothers in the backseat, Finn quite literally twiddling his thumbs as he watches the clouds above, forehead cool against the glass of the window. Kurt on the opposite end. He knows he’s being more than childish, but supposes he owes himself a moment of it – he didn’t want to sit in the front with his dad. Hardly pleased with his brother’s lack of revealing the truth either, there certainly is a dimmed sense of anger.

Finn didn’t owe anything to him. His dad should have told him.

Kurt asked Blaine to go home, seethed.

_“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me, dad!”_

_“Kurt, he-”_

_“No, Blaine, you,_ you _don’t get to talk. Finn, take me to the car please.”_

_“Kurt, I think-”_

_“Either you take me to the car or I’ll go searching myself.”_

The vision is constant in his mind, back and forth, compulsive with the sheer motion that it just won’t leave him. The brief isolation in the dank hospital room had brought him into physical practise of what he would say to the coward when he saw him. Without anticipation of true confidence, opinions of his own hardly important in the unchanging mind of tormenter.

This complicated boy who looked like an emperor, bathed in the status of it, was evidently frightened like a child. Any comment that would have come now utterly sinking to the pit of his own dreams. On the day of their first encounter, the development that coursed from that crashing wave of sticky coolness was one like no other, something that so few people were aware of. He wasn’t a boy for excessive violence or such actions without rhyme or reason, his father had raised a good boy, a kind one. It was beginning to make sense now. Why he hadn't seen the police, why his friends weren't talking about it.

But kindness was what killed you these days. Guards lowered just to the height for the bad to creep in – kindness a life taker, but detachment was what ended most people. Kurt laughs, a derisive sound that slipped from his lungs sharply, like a toothpick edged between his ribs. Finn turns to him, brow raised, he never was one for the deeper things in life but he genuinely couldn’t understand the unprovoked sound emitting his brother.

Finn is positive that none of this is funny.


End file.
